Oh. We aren’t going to say goodbye. Okay.Saturday, 11:32 a.m.
I’d texted and asked if I could drop by for a minute after my bike ride. It had been a few days since I’d asked for time to think. He asked what time. I said I let him know and if he was busy I’d come back later. He said, “Not busy. Just might go to the pool.” I think he specifically said this to see if I’d say I wanted to go with him to the pool. If I didn’t say that, I think he knew I was coming to break up. He was right.
I texted back after the ride and he said to come over.
I started crying when I was a mile away. I cried all the way in, using the key he’d given me 48 hours after we met. (Honestly I think he just didn’t like to come down and let me in but it was so weird to have a key that fast. I didn’t like it actually. Hoppy Sporty Sport didn’t wanna give me a key a year in. Anywayyyyy…) So I’m crying. I walk up the steps. I stop to look at the ducks by the pond. Last time.
I stand by the door. Last time.
I knock. Of course he doesn’t get up, as usual. He is just sitting in his chair. I think you get your ass up to let people in and greet them.
So I walk in. Crying. He’s sitting there in my favorite pair of shorts he owns, the blue ones with fish skeletons. He’s got his glasses on so he is sort of Anderson-Cooperish looking, if you squint. He’s doing a Sudoku.
I set his stuff gently on the counter in the kitchen and come into the small living room.
“Is that my stuff?” he asks.
I nod and sit down in the double recliner that I hate and will never sit in again. One of those heinous things with two recliners and a place to keep things in the middle, so you can’t lay down and you can’t cuddle at all.
“I’ve got yours ready. I figured that’s why you were here,” he says getting up.
He sets it by the door and walks over. He does not sit down. I look up.
“I’d like that $60 if you’ve got it,” he says.
I say it’s in the bag with the clothes.
He nods. I’m waiting for him to sit down so we can talk.
“Well I won’t keep you. I know you have places to go,” he says.
I look up at him through my tears, “Ok.”
I grab my bag full of my clothes and books and make-up items that I’d been dragging in all summer because I was that serious about him.
He opens the door. I walk out. He watches me.
I’m full on crying. He watches me walk down the stairs.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he says.
No you won’t.