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By Savannah Haze Date: 2005 Apr 18 Comment on this Work [[2005.04.18.01.12.17372]] |
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So it's been four years since I told him that it's not me, it's you and there have been more songs and poems and bathroom grafitti written about each other that I care to count. And it's the day after Christmas so I'm feeling all goopy inside since this is the time of year that if I'm gonna miss you, I miss you. I call you from the grocery store cause I'm scared to talk to you in any type of private place. Unbeknownst to them these strangers will keep me in line as they buy tonight's dinner as if there aren't enough leftovers to feed a third world country. You answer the phone and at first I'm not sure if you recognize my voice until I remember that you need no stage or audience to be a master thespian. Of course you know my voice in all of its many costumes--I have screamed your name, whispered your name, moaned, cried, grunted, sighed and sometimes even spoken you name. You know my damn voice. Stop playing. I begin the arduous task of holding the phone, a conversation and control of this buggy that seems to have a mind of its own. We laugh nervously and feign to care about the lives and lies the other is leading. I run over an end display of holiday candy and quickly retreat to the ice cream aisle. I crouch down behind crates of hot fudge and caramel. They remind me of you but I try not to think about that or the way you licked them off of me. I crouch until my knees ache and I gently ease my ass down to the floor. Jesus, I'm a grown woman, hiding behind ice cream toppings on the day after Christmas talking to a boy with a middle name I can't remember how to spell. Edmund? Edmond? Eddmunde? It's a stupid name anyway. And I'm stupid. Stupid for calling. Stupid for opening up wounds that have finally healed. Stupid for believing that by some Christmas miracle you've changed and will finally admit all of the things you did to me, all of the things that will make me finally let go. That you will say you're sorry, sorry for making me love you so damn hard that my knuckles turned white from the ride. But we only talk. Talk about the move I'll make next year. Talk about your music, the music that will never be heard because of your habits, the same demons that fuel the music to be written. We talk and we laugh and we flirt and we wonder and at some point, as I stare at a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, the words blend together and become a hum, the hum of a song to which I no longer know the words. I strain to remember the chorus but it won't come. And I don't care. For the first time in four years, I don't care. Your voice has become a hum, a sound, nondescript. By now people are staring; a woman asks if I'm okay. I nod and cover my eyes. I say goodbye without any warning and flip my phone closed. I stand up and brush myself off as I maneuver my buggy to the front of the store. The frozen corn has begun to melt under the potatoes and bread and the cold inside is dripping from my soul leaving me with little puddles of you in my stomach, puddles that will dry when the sun comes back, the sun of a love I left at home. I never thought I'd find my Christmas present at the local grocery. Merry Christmas to me. I am free. |