He was a hero without anyone to save, a coward without
anything to confront, a life without a purpose. If he didn't try so hard to be
happy, he might've had an okay life, but due to years of Hollywood films and
classic literature he believed a man’s worth is based on his physical
accomplishments.
He had purchased a gun, hoping to find some solace in his
ability to kill something, but he didn’t. Of the three times he had fired the
weapon, none had made him feel anything other than contempt. He purchased a scotch decanter set, but that sat in the corner of his apartment consistently
full. His Armani suits turned heads when he walked down the street, but he was
always more comfortable in jeans.
He is broken. Some part of his mind, the masculine part, must
not have properly developed. He doesn't enjoy sports, classic rock, or large
slabs of meat. He used to blame his intelligence. He thought of those things as
barbaric, and he was civilized. That’s why he owns expensive suits, drinks
expensive scotch, and drives an expensive car. But last night as he drove home
in his $250,000 car, wearing a $3,000 suit, and drinking a $40 glass of scotch,
he realized he was empty. He should have been ecstatic, but all he could think
about was running his car into the ocean and being done with it all.
He always thought “If
I ever have a family, things will be better.” He used to think “when.” Hope is
such a fragile thing.
The night prior to this one had hurt him. It was strange for
him. His consistent apathy had been the one grounding force in his life.
Something he could hold on to and remind himself he didn't need to care. He had
been told by a dozen different women that he was a “dick,” or self-centered. One
had said he was impossible to argue with. He didn't understand why that was a
bad thing. He just looked down and didn't watch her leave.
All these women had come and gone without so much as a
response from him. He’d consider being sad or angry, but in the end he simply
chose not to be. They had their reasons, they were warranted, and he was used
to being alone anyway. But this girl was different. This girl somehow managed
to take whatever insignificant heart he had and shatter it.
They had started dating a number of weeks ago. She was nice
and seemed to get a kick out of his emotional detachment. She liked that he didn't feel the need to
express himself, that he was comfortable in silence. They were so miserably
happy together.
Their relationship proceeded down the typical course. They
spent plenty of time together. Between watching movies neither of them enjoyed
and not talking, they were almost inseparable.
She was a waitress. She always said that pretending to be
friendly eight hours a day was exhausting. That always almost made him smile.
When they were together it was a storm of angst and indifference. It began as
complaints about others. The driver who didn’t signal, the concession worker
who wore too much make-up, the dog without a leash. But, eventually, her
attention turned to him. He never left enough coffee in the morning, he
splashed toothpaste on the bathroom mirror, and his jeans were too tattered.
He didn't care. Long ago he had convinced himself that words
from other people are meaningless. She could yell at him for the most trivial
of things and he wouldn't even bat an eye. He would just wait till he was sure
she was finished and then redundantly ask her “are you finished?” She'd then
always smile and say “yes, dear.” True love.
Their break-up was inevitable, they both knew it. Eventually
they would get bored of each other and go their separate ways. The only
question was how? How would it happen? Would he simply ignore her calls and
hope she stops trying? Would she scream at him for drinking all the milk and
storm out? The longer the two of them were together; the potential of the breakup grew exponentially.
It was a Tuesday morning after a long weekend. She had been
staying over the last week while her apartment was being fumigated. The week
was a haze. Never should these two people spend that much time together. By
this time, they had both realized this. When he awoke that morning, he was
alone. His apartment was empty. Her and her stuff had left early. He fell
back asleep.
A couple hours later he woke up again. She was still missing.
He wandered aimlessly around the apartment before approaching the refrigerator.
He removed the orange juice and poured himself a glass. It was upon the
returning of the juice that he noticed a note attached to the fridge door. It
simply said “don’t call me.” He smiled, crumpled the note, and placed it in the
trash.
A week past and he never even considered calling her. He had
forgotten how much he enjoyed loneliness. The simple pleasure of silence, of no
conversation other than a constant inner-monologue, of no need for a cell
phone. For that one week, he was at peace.
She texted him on the following Wednesday. Her text startled
him as his phone had been silent for days. As he read the four-word text he immediately wished he hadn't. “We need to talk,” was all that was written.
...............................................................................................................................
He wakes up lost in a sea of nausea and shame. His leather
couch sticks to his face as he peels himself off and stumbles to the bathroom.
He dry-heaves, carefully avoiding the vomit stained floor mat. He washes his
face before heading to the kitchen. Shards of broken glass puncturing his feet as
he walks towards the fridge. As he pours himself a glass of orange juice his mind wanders to what could have been. Sure, he didn't like her, but he doesn't like anyone. They could've made it work. Things would've been better. If only she had given them a chance.
