Alex is being unreasonable. Haven't you made your love obvious? What are the odds, anyways? You are here now and that is what matters.
You sip your disgusting decaffeinated tea and stare out the kitchen window. The taste of the tea—if there really is a taste to this gray water—slaps your tastebuds. This is not coffee. The antique clock over the door says its eleven thirty. The mail was supposed to show up twenty minutes ago, eighteen if traffic on Sheldon Pines wasn't bad. You have been tracing the mailman's habits ever since Alex made those ridiculous accusations. If Mrs Martin was not home when he stopped by, there is no reason for the mailman to be this late. But if Mrs Martin was home, that could easily turn into a four or even seven minute delay.
Poor Mrs Martin, living alone with her houseplants.
It was a mistake. A slip. An accident.
One time you stopped to talk to Mrs Martin and there went your afternoon. Never again. Now, whenever you see her in her rare visits to her barren front yard, you extend your return journey by however long necessary to avoid her. She followed you all the way to the front door once. The memory still makes you cringe.
Alex won't be there to save you, wasn't there when you needed help.
So if the mailman was sucked into another conversation with Mrs Martin, the chances of him getting to you before Alex does are not good.
You set your cup down and turn from the window. A plate of burnt toast and cold eggs is on the counter where you left it an hour ago. Amazingly, it's even less appetizing now. You dump it down the sink and watch as the garbage disposal whirs on, ripping to unrecognizable shreds what had been your breakfast. It's refreshing. The garbage disposal is unbiased. It performs regardless. It does not question.
The garbage disposal has been running without anything to shred for a few seconds too long. The sound is smooth and unhindered, wrong. You turn it off, regretting that you don't have more things to shred.
You rush back to the kitchen window and peer out.
It's only been a few months. The two of you were taking a break. You both knew what that meant. At least you had thought both of you knew. It isn't your fault that Alex had spent that time moping, missing you. This was a decision you both had made. Completely unreasonable of Alex to now demand this of you.
The street is still void of mailman truck. The house is still void of noise. You take your not even somewhat empty cup of tea to the sink and relish the way it swirls down down down—
The motel was sticky. You were always a sucker for brokenhearted sweethearts. There were stains on the carpet too dark to know but dark enough to imagine. You had had two tiny tiny drinks and you were already dreading going back to mom's couch. The bed was springy and dusty, ancient and neglected. The sheets felt like paper towels and smelled like grandma's closet. The lights in the bar had been turned down low, burning yellow, but you saw those bright brown eyes shining and knew that you weren't going to be the only one comforted that night.
You hear a noise on the street. Distantly, you hope someone may have just gotten hit. You don't bother chiding yourself for that hope. At the window you see someone dragging their trash bin out for collection. It's Tuesday again, is it? Alex is so good about all those silly domestic things, probably put the bins out before going to work, after checking to make sure neither of them had put recycling in the wrong one.
Someone is always preoccupied with saving the world.
You don't judge. Weren't you trying to save that night?
