Part past part fiction 4

 

 

 

Feeling like the first idiot on Mars, I arrive on her doorstep; wretched and entombed. This house, our home of four years, now hurts like a splinter beneath my fingernail. With barely a comment passing between us, she lets me in and I spend the afternoon violently shoving books into boxes and separating out my vinyl from hers.

I know I’m not the first person in the world to ever have to deal with this but that’s not much of a consolation as I go through the excruciating process of deconstructing my life.

And all the while an old Cure song is running through my head;

If only I’d thought of the right words,

I could have held on to your heart.

If only I’d thought of the right words,

I wouldn’t be breaking apart,

all my pictures of you.

It goes around and around on a loop and I’m close to tears by the time the last box is finally packed.

She drives me back to town, what’s left of my life sliding around in the boot. On the way, she drops her latest bomb on my rapidly deteriorating defenses.

“You should know that he’s coming back.”

“What?”

“He’s coming back; next month.”

“I thought his visa ran out?”

“He can come back to visit.”

“How nice for you both.”

“If I married him he could stay in the country permanently.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I just thought you should know.”

“So you’re going to marry him?”

“I- don’t know, maybe.”

“Fuck!”

The rest of the drive doesn’t go so well.

 

292 words.

 

 

 

Words and image are my own.

 

©2016