“A storm’s a brewing.”
I could see your breath last night. It danced circles around your freckles, playing ring-a-rosy before fading into the dark leather of our couches. It is the first days of Winter; the landlord is still yet to install the heater the lease promised would exist before we moved in. Summer, we coped, and Autumn was tolerable because we had each other. But now you’re working days and I get the night shifts, so empty spaces on the couch are only filled with dancing breath.
I didn’t sleep the night before last because of your snores and because of the walls. You insisted they belong to me, but there were no dark puddles beneath your eyes yesterday morning.
Last night, my boss called to cancel my shift. I swore and threw my phone at the wall that separates both our beds. It must’ve hit the exact pressure point of our paper-thin plaster to send the one plant you’d kept alive flying across your room. I ran to your bedroom door and saw the small ceramic pot at your feet, its succulent scattered in a pattern of soil like it had been trying to escape. Guilt swallowed the anger of the phone call, but only until you said don’t worry, it’s ok. Your acceptance of my apology only made me the more annoyed. I wanted to be the one who was upset. And even though you weren’t, I wanted to be the one who was allowed to be.
“Let’s make the most of a night we’re both home.”
I knew you were right. Tantrums are for toddlers, and you weren’t to let me be one of those. But you let me sulk through dinner, let me eat my noodles silently as you told me about your day. By the time we balanced our teas on the couch and found a movie we both hadn’t seen since high school, I was feeling ok. I heard myself laugh when you spilt your chamomile all over your crotch, and I couldn’t help but hate you for making me forget to be angry.
We only made it halfway through the film when you decided you wanted ice-cream.
“This is what I always imagined moving out of home would be like, night-time trips to the ice-cream shop in our pyjamas.”
But tonight, I was tired. I told you I couldn’t be bothered. You said you didn’t want to go alone, and I said, well, don’t go. You went anyway.
A freeze frame of the popular girls, pink skirts and perfect hair. The TV was the only light on in our house, besides the one on by your bed. The way the wind whirred outside our windows and pushed the trees up against our walls scared me enough to wonder if you were ok. The ice-cream shop was only around the corner, but it was dark and it was cold, so you drove the six hundred meters.
Popular girls and flip-top phones is what I see when I think about waiting for you to come home.
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