New Years Day


                                                                                                     We went out the night before. I wore a sequence dress with purple and gold fishnet stockings and my great-grandmother’s cowboy boots. I told him he had to kiss me at midnight. That’s the last thing I remember.

 The morning light was cold and grey. The world outside was quiet and rude. We rarely saw each other on Sundays. I woke up next to him, tucked myself into his warmth and felt happy.

Just as quickly as I woke up, it was time for him to leave. I remember the way it felt when he left. He gave me a hug and knew when he let go I was going to fall apart. I closed the door and listened to him walk down the steps.

The weight of loneliness dragged in the air and pushed me to the floor. I felt the breath of the New Year holding me down. It occurred to me that I had never needed someone like this before. But what I wanted I couldn’t say. I wanted to be a part of his life.

He called me an hour later but I didn’t answer. He tried calling again and I turned off my phone. I tried to hide it but I knew he could see it in my eyes when he left.

I couldn’t talk to him. I didn’t want to tell him how deserted I felt. I cried into the air, trying to ignore the popular U2 song that was running through my mind. I didn’t leave the couch all day. My phone stayed off until the next morning.

I got in my car to get fast food. On the way back home I stopped at a red light. His car was stopped at the light across from me. I didn’t honk. I didn’t wave. As if we didn’t exist.

I should have seen it coming.

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