Fiction 2

So here's the thing. I write and I write and I write. I draw doodles and I twirl noodles with my fork. I soak up all the existential angst and feel vaguely important. And then I wonder- now what? Days seem to have a pointlessness that all the blues in the world can't cure. Not Prince, not Louis Armstrong, not even Ella Fitzgerald. Speaking of which, I was reading Fitzgerald the other day and it reminded me of you. Not that Gatsby has anything to do with you- oh, who am I kidding? Everything reminds me of you. The birds flying in a V shape in the sky, the low guttural sound my cat makes when he stretches out, my pyjamas crumpled, as they come out from the washer. People making love on the other side of my cardboard thin wall, overpriced wines at lunches with friends, my graying boss. I was listening to Def Leppard the other day and I thought of you. Which doesn't even make sense because you hate Def Leppard- you don't even consider glam rock music.
I don't miss you. I don't wish for you to be sitting on the steps in front of my house when I return home from work one evening. I can imagine how you'd look- your cap tipped over an eye, a cigarette lounging by your mouth, and a faint aroma of smoke and coffee emanating from you. I'd see you and we'd both be very still for a second- there'd be a minute of awkwardness- but there wouldn't because you'd smile your lazy smile and come give me a one armed hug. Like it was the most natural thing in the world, like nothing had happened, like everything was fine.
But this wouldn't happen because I don't want it to. It's not that everything we shared was a lie, it's that I can't separate the truth from my fantastical creations. I cannot differentiate between a kiss and a dream, between a moan and a sigh, between ecstasy and madness, between comfort and numbness. I'm not saying that you're not a good person because you are. You really are. So I can't hate you- it was a mistake, all just a stupid mistake. But sometimes we can't brush our follies under the carpet, darling. We can't look the other way and pretend that we were distracted, we just can't. So we fall apart, you and I. I walk in circles while you sail over the edge of a cliff, burning like ice with your secret heat.