#18 Claws in a Blistering Heart

I pick you up in my rusty car on a blistering Texas day.

Within an hour of being with you, I tell you I’m moving out.

This is not the reunion you imagined after your six weeks away.

You ask me why. I tell you I want space.

I tell you that the fire has burned down but the coals are still there.

You ask how long you think I’ll move out for.

I don’t know, I say.

You say it’s OK and the space is here for me if I decide to come back after three or six months or so.

I’m getting a year lease, I say.

The next day we sit on the couch at opposite ends facing each other.

Why do I want to leave? What can you do for me? You want to know.

“Nothing,” I say.

You ask again.

Then I tell you, “I slept with someone.”

“Why?” you ask, still softly.

“Because it made me feel alive,” I say.

“I don’t make you feel alive?” you ask softly. I glance down as my lips press together.

“Just once?” you ask.

“No,” I say.

The next evening, I sit with you on the couch after a day apart.

You take my two hands and ask, “Baby, will you go to counseling with me?”

I shake my head.

The next day, your friend flies in for a reunion weekend with college buddies.

He knows he’s in a damage control role, I called him days ago to tell him.

I tell you both the lease to my new apartment is ready to sign, thinking you’ll take that well.

The rest of your drinking buddies arrive. I insist on joining the party. You don’t say no, but they say, “You can’t do this to him”.

I don’t let you go for weeks.

I alternate between my friend’s place and the new bedmate’s place before mine is ready.

Sometimes I come by yours for coffee and company while packing.

I invite you running with me and two friends, one of them the bedmate — you don’t know it’s him.

I invite myself to join you and your work friends for drinks.

I wonder why you go to dim sum with your friends and never with me.

My mom calls you about why you decided not to join us on the overseas trip we planned. You paid already.

We drive your Jaguar to San Antonio to run a big race we signed up for months ago. At dinner, you asked me where I was last night.

I name the running buddy.

Is that why you left me? You ask.

I press my lips together.

While I’m on that overseas trip a month later, I call you, telling you I wish you were there.

I return to Texas in January of the next year.

You invite me out to a calm wine bar.

After some wine and pasta salad, you pause, look at me, knots in your forehead, hazel eyes glistening, and say, “try not to call me.”

—

This is Day 18 of Don’t Break the Chain, a writing class by Cole Schafer.

Today’s assignment: take the longest piece you have written in the course so far and edit it to half the words.

This piece came from Day #9 Drawing Your Line.