Walking Away

Silence.

You shake your head, staring across the bed at your girlfriend.

“When?” you ask.

Her red, swollen eyes narrow and out another tear. “Baby, I—”

“WHEN?” you insist, leaning forward.

She sniffles, wiping her nose with a tattered ball of tissues. “Um, two…two months ago.”

“Well, fuck…” you say, before standing up. A pile of clothing spills out of the closet; her stuff, mostly. For a moment, THIS is the transgression that occupies your mind. Always leaving her shit just lying around. No goddamned respect for your SHARED space, for keeping a clean home…

And you chuckle at the absurdity of it. No, that’s no reason to be mad at her. Not now…

“Baby…” She leans forward, crawling toward you across the bed. “Baby, I’m so sor—”

“Don’t.” You put up your hand, unable to look at her. “Just…just DON’T, okay?”

This is working.

You pull a small duffel bag from beneath the bed and go to your closet, grabbing at whatever. Forethought escapes you; whatever you forget can be replaced.

“Baby?” she asks.

Don’t engage her. That’s the last goddamned thing you need right now. You need to be away from her, from this place, from that bed (your own goddamned bed, for chrissake!). You need to get away and find a quiet place and…and just think this through. Two months! She’s been sitting on this for two goddamned months, and now, what? You’re supposed to be able to sit down and discuss this rationally? No…

“BABY?” she asks, anxiety raising her timbre. “W-what are you doing?”

You sigh. “I’m getting out of here,” you mutter, stuffing a wad of socks into the overfull bag.

Her feet pound against the hardwood as she rushes the closet. “You’re…you’re LEAVING?”

“What I said,” you say, glancing at her as you flip off the light. Your eyes meet briefly as you push past her and enter the bathroom.

“You’re…you’re coming back, right?” she asks, following you. “Like, you’re not LEAVING, leaving?”

You open the medicine cabinet. Toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant…

“RIGHT?” she asks, panicked.

You slam the mirrored door shut and glare at her. “I don’t know. But I’m not staying HERE while I figure that out.”

She leans in, and then her hands reach for you, tug at your shirt, your hair. You sweep her arm away with your own and return to the bedroom. Where the hell are your keys…?

“Baby…” Her voice is quiet and gentle. Then her hand finds the middle of your back. In that moment, all is her touch—a familiar, loving touch that’s only hers. It’s the kind of intimate familiarity you build with a person after spending two years with them, the ability to sense their presence, to KNOW it’s them without sight or sound to confirm. So jarring is the effect, even with your keys in your hand, you’re unable to move. “Baby…please don’t go…” she whispers.

You turn around, facing her again. Rational thought’s left you alone, and the sight of her draws you a step closer. Her cheeks, red streaked with black trails of tears and mascara, pull up as she forces an ashamed but hopeful smile. And looking into those eyes—eyes that drew you to her for the first time, long ago; the bright, expressive eyes you thought only YOU could read—and seeing the hurt and the fear, a part of you wants to stay, to take that hurt away, to comfort her.

But…(slow at first, then quick like a motherfuckin cinder block to the head) you remember what she just confessed. You KNOW your original impulse was right. You need to leave…