I stare up at the ceiling, letting my eyes adjust to the dim lighting of my room especially after being assaulted with gallery lighting for the past few hours. Gritting my teeth while I rub a tender spot on my neck, tossing around the pros and cons of texting The Lover physically pains me.
Pros: he may find my admission of adoration charming, I’d at least get to speak to him once more, and at the very least he may come and get his fucking painting.
Cons: he could ignore me.
Tapping my foot, I shake the negativity from my shoulders as if that would hold any real power over my mood. Ignoring the screaming opposition of my conscience, I bring my phone to my ear.
The ring taunts me, the shrill repetitive sound driving me insane as seconds tick by. I’m about to give up, toss my phone aside, and huddle into my bed for the rest of my life when I hear the click of the phone. The line is quiet for a moment, just long enough to cause every hair on my body to stand up.
“Hello?”
My shoulders relax at his voice, the husky drawl that drew me in from the very beginning brings me unexpected comfort. I don’t even notice my feet carrying me back and forth as I pace across the wooden floors of my apartment.
“Hello-”
“Hi! I’m sorry,” I interrupt, already breathless, “It’s uh- It’s-”
“I know who it is.”
My eyes widen at his stoic harshness, so quiet yet so hard with emotion. Not about to waste the opportunity, I throw my shoulders back and tangle my shaking hand into my hair.
“You came to my show. You bought my painting.”
I don’t know why I pause. I didn’t ask a question for him to answer.
“I did,” I can hear humor in his voice. He was always better at this than I am, “is that really why you called?”
“You never picked up your painting,” I push through, thinking I was expertly ignoring his question when -in reality- he had me in the palm of his hand again.
His deep sigh rings out over the line. If I focus hard enough, I can smell his nightly scotch on his breath and if I shut my eyes tight enough, I can see his brows crinkle the way they always do when I speak.
“Why did you buy it?”
“I’d rather not have my delineation in other people’s homes.”
Save this conversation. Stop talking about the goddamn painting.
“I didn’t see you at the gallery.”
“You were very busy. If I remember correctly you were trapped in another man’s arms all night, I definitely remember seeing his lips on your neck,” he nearly spits his words, and I can hear his tensed jaw.
My pacing comes to an abrupt halt, my hand falling from my hair until it’s at my side. I ignore the delusional part of myself that thinks this whole thing is hot, letting my lips quirk up into a sarcastic smirk.
“Was I expected to take a vow of celibacy? I didn’t know us breaking up meant that I was supposed to join a convent.”
Silence.
The only sound between us is our breathing, I can still hear the rasp of his own inhalation over the crackling phone line. Meanwhile my breathing comes out sounding strangled and rushed like I just finished running up three flights of stairs.
My mouth drops open in surprise at myself, “I’m sorry-”
“You’re right.”
We both speak at the same time, my apology cut off before I even have the chance to dig myself into a deeper hole. My mouth remains agape, in our eight months together I’d never heard those words before. The admission does nothing to release the tension in my neck, if anything it only makes it worse.
“You looked good.” He adds, the words tangling in his throat until they sound strained, “You always look handsome in that blue shirt. You always look handsome…”
It’s as if he wrapped my heart in his fist, squeezing it until tears burn in my eyes like some kind of morbid stress ball. I blow out a deep breath, collapsing on the edge of my bed with my elbow resting on my knee while my hand clutches my phone like a vise.
“I didn’t think you would come tonight.”
“And not see your gallery? Not a chance,” he blows off my comment with more confidence than I could ever possess. “You worked on some of those paintings in my apartment, I swear I should have a producer credit on some of them.”
A chuckle grows in my throat. The first genuine laughter in so long, the type of laughter that lightens your shoulders and dissipates any consternation you may feel.
The familiar chime of our mixed laughter brings me back to the “honeymoon phase” of our relationship. Dreamy mornings spent tangled in each other’s bed, kisses swapped in the most public of places to let the world know our status, and so much adoration that you cannot imagine ever having a fight or -God forbid- breaking up.
Honeymoon periods end. One person cheats or lies or fucks up and suddenly you’re human again. Sometimes they do all three.
“Listen,” he sighs, “not that I don’t love hearing your voice-”
Love.
“-but… why did you call? Shouldn’t you be celebrating your success? I saw all of those reporters there tonight; they were practically drooling over you. At the very least, your boyfriend should be-”
“He’s not here.”
More silence.
I want to roll over and bury my head in my pillow and scream until the burning in my throat overwhelms the burning on my face. Rolling onto my side, I squish my cheek to the cool glass while pulling my knees up to my chest.
“He’s not there?”
“That’s what I said.”
He blows out a snort, “I’m just wrapping my head around it.”
I stare ahead, counting every drawer in my dresser while the silence passes before moving on to study my choice of decor. I’d never noticed how many goddamn plants I have but there’s definitely one or five too many.
“I would have brought you home early-”
“Don’t-”
“And we would have popped champagne-”
“Please-”
“We would have celebrated your success-”
“Stop,” I interrupt, the idea of celebrating with him was nearly too much to bear, “you’re not here.”
Why did you leave? If you “love” talking to me so much, why did you stop loving me?
I hear him suck in a deep breath; the familiar creaking of his box spring alerted me to the fact that he’s already in bed. The picture that this realization paints doesn’t help with the ebbing pain in my chest.
Black sweatpants. White T-shirt. Bed-tousled hair, possibly held back by the sleep mask.
He’s sitting in those sheets, the same charcoal-colored ones I used to grip in the middle of the night. His head is probably on my pillow: the one that I claimed my first night there because it was just the right balance of firm and soft. It would have helped if he was somewhere foreign, not somewhere I had spent so many nights.
“You’re right,” the admission sounds strained when it rolls off his tongue.
My head bobs up and down with a hasty nod although I know he can’t see me, in my mind he’s standing in front of me and we’re having this conversation in person. It would be so much harder in person, if I could see his expression I know I would fold in a moment. I would forget any issues I may have and fall into his arms without a moment’s hesitation.
“I can tell that painting is your favorite.”
Of course, you can. It’s a painting of you.
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