He was always in between his word and what his word means.
She was there to pick up some clothing, DVDs she missed, and the framed prom photo she placed by the bed a long time ago, when she believed in their love. It had taken only a few moments for her to notice the apartment in disarray. She wondered if they had kept house, if she had been the only thing holding his life together. She draped the comforter from headboard to the floor and straightened out the pillows - two for him, two that used to be hers. Making her way down the hall, she caught a whiff of something stale. The trash was overflowing from the bag, so she grabbed hold of the yellow drawstrings, lifting with both arms. It was all too heavy.
From under the sink, she retrieved another bag, deciding to lessen the weight. Scattered on the very top were at least twenty Reese's wrappers sans the chocolate-covered peanut butter contents. Not the bright orange wrappers, of course. Christmas was only a few weeks back and he always had quite a stash of Peanut Butter Trees from the season. She grabbed a handful of them to place in the new bag. She recognized little pieces of plastic with broken foil covering - packaging for Simply Sleep. It was not in the least bit surprising. He would need something to get to bed before three or four or five and if she were lucky, he would have it. She stood there for a second, shaking off the memories. She reminded herself that that phase of her life is over; no more lying awake all night knowing exactly where he was but never what it meant.
An empty plastic sandwich bag was opaque from use. It is the kind that folds over to close and she knew it was purchased from the dealer who charged an extra ten dollars for his greens. She lifted it to her nose, missing the scent of their weekends - sometimes sex or homemade cookies but always weed. Stuck to the bag was a ripped piece of notebook paper, about one inch by three inches. Glittery purple gel ink cast Denise 9042661703 over two lines in a flirty scribble. He must've accepted it merely to avoid the confrontation. The name was familiar, a member of his group for class; maybe he had mentioned her in passing. It was just like him, failing to share enough of the truth to be honest.
Crumpled tissues filled both her palms; she could swear they were still wet. She made fists of his sorrow. This was her home once, and he had been her family. He pushed her away. And, now that she is gone, he phones regularly to tell her he could "never love another woman." If only that were true during their relationship, she would have wiped his tears forever. As her eyes glance down into the trash, she drops the tissues and her anger into the new bag. What struck her was a used condom and wrapper. She hadn't forgotten; it was only a week ago. When they wanted seconds, they moved from the couch to the bed and though she insisted on using protection earlier, her anxiety faded by the time she was between the cold sheets and his warm body. Her mind buzzes now: Had he used condoms with the other woman?
Underneath a white grocery bag from the twenty-four hour Wal-Mart, that probably held a half gallon of chocolate ice cream he picked up, stoned, after midnight, were several empty bottles of liquor - Captain Morgan's Parrot Bay Rum and Absolut Vodka. She split the bottles between the bags and lifted the old one out of the can. She was ready to leave.
Tying the bags quickly but efficiently, she let her back carry the weight of one while the other - the original bag - was still heavy enough in her hand to cut the circulation in her fingers. At the bottom of the plastic was the corner of a journal that had stretched but not ripped the bag. She felt desperate. Why had he thrown it out? Were the pages as filled with facts as his mouth was with stories? She brought the trash down the flight of stairs and across the street to the dumpster. She contemplated what might have happened in those late hours. In the bag, there are many possibilities - with the exception of the only one she needed. She tossed his refuse over the gate, holding onto the one-word answer she still wanted to believe: "Nothing."
From under the sink, she retrieved another bag, deciding to lessen the weight. Scattered on the very top were at least twenty Reese's wrappers sans the chocolate-covered peanut butter contents. Not the bright orange wrappers, of course. Christmas was only a few weeks back and he always had quite a stash of Peanut Butter Trees from the season. She grabbed a handful of them to place in the new bag. She recognized little pieces of plastic with broken foil covering - packaging for Simply Sleep. It was not in the least bit surprising. He would need something to get to bed before three or four or five and if she were lucky, he would have it. She stood there for a second, shaking off the memories. She reminded herself that that phase of her life is over; no more lying awake all night knowing exactly where he was but never what it meant.
An empty plastic sandwich bag was opaque from use. It is the kind that folds over to close and she knew it was purchased from the dealer who charged an extra ten dollars for his greens. She lifted it to her nose, missing the scent of their weekends - sometimes sex or homemade cookies but always weed. Stuck to the bag was a ripped piece of notebook paper, about one inch by three inches. Glittery purple gel ink cast Denise 9042661703 over two lines in a flirty scribble. He must've accepted it merely to avoid the confrontation. The name was familiar, a member of his group for class; maybe he had mentioned her in passing. It was just like him, failing to share enough of the truth to be honest.
Crumpled tissues filled both her palms; she could swear they were still wet. She made fists of his sorrow. This was her home once, and he had been her family. He pushed her away. And, now that she is gone, he phones regularly to tell her he could "never love another woman." If only that were true during their relationship, she would have wiped his tears forever. As her eyes glance down into the trash, she drops the tissues and her anger into the new bag. What struck her was a used condom and wrapper. She hadn't forgotten; it was only a week ago. When they wanted seconds, they moved from the couch to the bed and though she insisted on using protection earlier, her anxiety faded by the time she was between the cold sheets and his warm body. Her mind buzzes now: Had he used condoms with the other woman?
Underneath a white grocery bag from the twenty-four hour Wal-Mart, that probably held a half gallon of chocolate ice cream he picked up, stoned, after midnight, were several empty bottles of liquor - Captain Morgan's Parrot Bay Rum and Absolut Vodka. She split the bottles between the bags and lifted the old one out of the can. She was ready to leave.
Tying the bags quickly but efficiently, she let her back carry the weight of one while the other - the original bag - was still heavy enough in her hand to cut the circulation in her fingers. At the bottom of the plastic was the corner of a journal that had stretched but not ripped the bag. She felt desperate. Why had he thrown it out? Were the pages as filled with facts as his mouth was with stories? She brought the trash down the flight of stairs and across the street to the dumpster. She contemplated what might have happened in those late hours. In the bag, there are many possibilities - with the exception of the only one she needed. She tossed his refuse over the gate, holding onto the one-word answer she still wanted to believe: "Nothing."