Tuesday, June 14, 2005


He wondered if the only way to get himself to give up was to be cruel enough to get her to cut off contact, but he couldn't do it to her face, couldn't possibly do that, so he packed up everything she'd ever given him, even the drawings he'd done of her and printouts of every email from her to him. He was surprised by the weight of it all, humbled by it, especially by all the words, and then he took her key because he still had that, and knowing that she was at work, he slipped into her bedroom and placed the pile neatly on the green chair in the corner.

Of course he couldn't stop crying as he did this, and he wouldn't look up, wouldn't look around at the room, surely not at the bed, and he turned and started to leave knowing how hurtful this would be, because, well, obviously, because, well, he was fighting what he thought was rejection with what he knew was rejection, and he got three steps outside her bedroom door and knew he couldn't do it.

He'd walked away from relationships before. Walked away from ones that had better chances, that made more sense than this one. Walked away from ones that had lasted longer. Walked away from ones that had included far more commitment on both sides. But he also knew that in this region of the ways of the world, logic was no help.

He turned once more. Once more entered the bedroom without really looking. Went to the chair. Picked everything up. Carried it all outside. Locked her door carefully. Carried everything to his car.

Wadin’ through the waste stormy winter,
And there’s not a friend to help you through.
Tryin’ to stop the waves behind your eyeballs,
Drop your reds, drop your greens and blues.

He knew he'd get hurt. Of course he hoped somehow he wouldn't. But he didn't believe in that. Still, he had no choice. And so he drove back home. The Stones' Sweet Virginia offering a lonely soundtrack.

I want you to come on, come on down sweet Virginia,
I want you come on, honey child, I beg of you.
I want you come on, honey child you got it in you.
Got to scrape that shit right off your shoes.

© 2005 by Ira Socol____________________________

1 comment:

Tamar said...

Well - what can I say? I love this.