“Do you want me to lock the door?”
Those were the last words I said to the woman I love. It doesn’t get any more poetic than that.
That was a pretty dumb question anyway, seeing as how I’d just placed the key to her home on the end table. I was returning her belongings and picking mine up to start a new life without her. How could I lock a door with no key? I blame habit and wanting to say something–anything other than “Bye.”
In true storybook fashion, she had my things in a huge Bebe shopping bag (WTF? Was I not worth a box?) by the door. Inside were a few of my frat shirts, a set of clippers that I no longer thought existed and an old KING magazine (the one with Stacy Dash on the cover). She secretly hated that I was a subscriber, but she understood that men are visual creatures.
When she’d opened the door, she gave me a dry “hey” and immediately plopped back down on the sofa. She was watching one of the many reality shows she’d probably DVR’d throughout the week. It was like I wasn’t even there. The lights were out and television screen illuminated barely enough light on the wall so I could see. Damn, she wanted me outta there. Truth be told, I didn’t think parting ways was the thing to do, but she’d insisted. Said I’d been hanging by a thread for a while. Benefit of the doubt had run its course.
After I said my final words, I stood in the entryway for about five seconds, hoping she would atleast give me a glance. It felt like an eternity, and I hate waiting.
She didn’t even turn around. She continued to sit quietly on the sofa with one leg propped under the other that was dangling off the armrest. She twirled her hair around her fingers. That was a signal that she was either aggravated or nervous. I knew most of her habits like they were my own.
I’m no fool, so I did what seemed logical after a bad breakup. I just closed the door. Forever.