Good morning. I can see the look of surprise on your face and I know that is because I am in the kitchen. Don’t get too ahead of yourself, darling. I’m not making breakfast or anything like that. Do you smell food? Do you see anything that resembles food? No? That’s not what I’m here for.
Yes, you’re still in charge of cooking. There’s no need to be overly dramatic about it, honey. You’ve been in charge for years. The whole of 5 years that we’ve been together. 4 years, if you feel like counting those couple of months in which I tried to be a little domestic during our first year together. You do remember what happened right? Yeah, I’d rather not think about it as well. Well, hey, I’m glad your bowel movement is back to normal.
What? Oh, right. Why am I here again?
I’ve been sulking.
The oven is turned on not because I plan to leave the earth Sylvia Plath-style. Don’t expect cookies to magically appear as well. I just like the heat that it produces and how it warms me up. Do you ever think our apartment’s way too cold? Sometimes, I do. No. Most of the time. I like walking around barefoot and during the first few years, I could. Now, it’s just dreadfully difficult. The floor is cold as ice. See? Try it. It will freeze you to death.
This place is extremely cluttered and cold.
Look at our bookshelf. Remember how we used to stay up late just to arrange them? Alphabetically, autobiographically, geographically—depending on our mood. How come we stopped doing that? That was so much fun from what I remember.
Hey, funny story. The other day, I found my old purse. I forgot that I kept all our tickets in there—tickets to shows, movies, and events. We stopped going to those as well. Together, I mean. I still go to shows. Just last week, I paid a lanky kid fifty dollars for his tickets to Bon Iver. It was a magical night and I sort of wished you were there. I remember when we’d embrace and sway along our favorite songs. You would kiss my forehead and I’d feel like the luckiest girl in the room.
Remember when you’d stop whatever you were doing just to point to your tiny radio and say, “It’s our song.”
What else. Movies. We watched a lot of them. I’d cry in all of the stupid parts and you’d wipe my tears away. You held the popcorn and the beverage while I concentrated on the screen. Last week, I watched a screening of Schindler’s List on my own. I cried my eyes out and I felt what it was like to be truly alone after so long.
I’ve been bonding with myself for months. Or has it been a year?
How are you?
I’m sulking because I want to.
I’m just wondering when we stopped being lovers. We live together, but we rarely do anything with each other. You still take up the space beside me in bed, but the separation is clear. It’s one huge wall that I can’t seem to destroy.
You don’t even hold my hand anymore.
Is it because I got old? You got old too. I mean, look at your head! Your receding hairline! I pretty much look the same as I did the day you first met me. Sure, my arms got a little bigger and I may have gained some flab in the stomach area. But those are minor details compared to what changed in you.
Yes, I’m wearing nothing underneath this shirt. I know it’s your favorite, but it was dark and I had to put something on. Do you want it back? Seriously, you can have it. Here.
Why are you looking at me like that? Has it been long enough for the sight of my naked body to startle you like that? Should I take that as a compliment?
I am trying to tell you something important here.
This is me. All of me. I am right in front of you like I’ve always been.
Why can’t you see?