Love Never Wanted Me

1

Where is that key? I know I left it in this dump of an office somewhere.

I'm on my hands and knees, crawling around the grey, coarse carpet, looking for what is essentially a needle in a haystack. This stupid, little, bronze key has eluded me for about an hour now. My desk and the floor around it are covered with loose papers and half-filled notebooks because of this search. Looks like reorganizing those has been added to my list of things to do today. Not wanting to think about how time consuming that will be, I let out a heavy sigh and crawl under my desk.

I've checked everywhere that I can think. The desk drawers were a bust. The filing cabinet was a no go, as was the bookshelf. Which means, the floor of this gloomy 10x15 room is all that is left to check. It must've fallen amongst all my mess. If I had just kept this spare key in a normal place, my office probably wouldn't be in this condition and I wouldn't be having this issue. Come to think of it, I wouldn't be crawling on the floor like an idiot, looking for this thing, if my girlfriend hadn't broken up with me.

Eight years just down the drain. Eight years of little arguments and makeups, late night conversations about nothing, the 'I love you, no matter what' moments; All of that, just gone in an instant. All that we had built together came crashing down with one little phrase:

It's over.

She said those two little words as if they meant nothing to her. She didn't care that those words meant the end of our partnership, our life together, our everything. From the look in her eyes, it was almost like she had been waiting to say that for a long time. Maybe she was. Maybe we were growing apart, like she said, and maybe I just couldn't see it. Maybe I didn't want to see it.

Then again, we have history. We've known each other our whole lives! If we were drifting apart, then why wouldn't she just talk to me? How could she just spring this on me like it was nothing? Did she even care about me anymore? Did she ever?

Before I can lose myself down this train of thought, the dim sparkle of something laying a few inches from me catches my eye. Ah-ha! Success! There you are, you bronze son of a bitch. I crawl under my desk and reach out to grab the key. Just as I wrap my fingers around it, there comes the sound of a soft knock on the door frame.

"Patrick? You in here?"

I peep over the top of my desk to see a tall, thin man, dressed in a black trench coat and matching suit number, with a bright red scarf tied around his neck. My best friend: Brendon. He got here faster than I expected. I only texted him about an hour ago.

"Down here, Bren," I say with a wave.

"Oh, hey," he says, entering the office fully, "Why are you under your desk?"

"I had to find my spare key," I reply, rising up and dusting off my jeans, "Which reminds me: leave yours on the coffee table before we head out."

"Already did," he said, "I, um, took your suitcase to the car already too. I saw it by the door. Is that all your taking?"

"And my work stuff," I reply, nudging my head toward the brown messenger bag hanging on the back of the door, "It'll be a couple of trips before I'm completely cleaned out of here, but I've got enough clothes to get by for a few days. El's going on a work retreat next week, so I'll come back for the rest of my stuff then."

"Sounds good," he says, "I pulled some blankets and pillows down before I came over, so the couch is all set for you."

"Thanks, man."

"How...how are you doing?"

I shake my head as I pick up some papers from off the floor; "Honestly," I reply, "I'm kinda numb. I...I don't know what to think or feel about this whole thing."