slack-jawed

I caught a glimpse of the blue vinyl suticases sitting stagnant on the two-tone of my kitchen floor. I was a mess. Bleeding cuticles from a bleeding heart, and he thought my ran blue. Three empty packets of menthols and I was waiting for him to walk out the door, or walk back into my life, neither of which was expectant.

I had a Golightly attitude about things. All I needed was a poor slob of a cat and a fifty for the powder room and things would be all cocktails and jazz, at least in that moment, at least in those times.

He was the martyr as I promised vows and accepted proposals, champange toasts and garter belts. All I really wanted was shots and suitors, decadence and debauchery, I wanted to feel twenty-two again, having little worries that he’d find my unprescribed perscriptions adorning the back of my medicine cabinet and I thought about all of this staring at painted black eyes, my reflection in the mirror. Turning my head back again, I felt his presence on a countertop of letters and postcards.

It was then that I realized there were no longer going to be hairy legs to tug at with my toes or waking up to warm breath on the back of my neck, no more light kisses down my spine or shoulders to rub and no more skin to graze. The only comfort I had left were the ever present sounds, the click-clickity-clack of the bedpost hitting the hardwood floor in the apartment above mine.