If You're Gone:

The spring flowers bloomed in vain because Billy had his curtains drawn. He hadn’t left the house in three days and he was now basking in darkness. The living room door was ajar, and a slither of light illuminated the left side of his face. His eyes winced when he sipped from the cup that held three fingers of bourbon, he wasn’t accustomed to alcohol of that strength. In the other room, his girlfriend stacked her packed bags in a slow and lethargic manner, waiting for that magic phrase from Billy, which was anything but silence. Her light and gentle sobbing was genuine, no doubt, but she accentuated it for both their benefit, but Billy wouldn’t bite. His jaw was squarer than normal, there in the dark, he bit down to pulsate his facial muscles as he had seen his Father do in highly emotional situations.

The ball was in Billy’s court, and it had been for a while, maybe it always had. Clara doted on him, inspired growth, believed in every dream he’d ever had and would’ve taken his surname in a heartbeat had he put it up for grabs. He never did, he thought marriage was a social construct contrived of little more than voodoo and superstition, she thought it was the ultimate gesture, and he agreed if she meant ideocracy or compliance. She hinted over the years, about how much it would have meant to her; in return, he ranted about social expectations and outdated belief systems, he barely noticed her eyes well-up each time, he just took her smile as a sign to go on.

Now with her packed bags, he felt it, the full weight of it all. He understood that he’d been lied to when he was told that there were plenty of fish in the sea. Now it felt like there was only one, and he felt the tug on the reel as she was leaving. Clara was good for him, perhaps the only good, perhaps even the ultimate good. His Mother called her an angel, his friends were more conservative with words but subscribed to a similar estimation of her character. Billy wasn’t blind, he saw it too. He knew it so deeply and truly that now all that numbed the pain was the three fingers of bourbon. He sipped, she sobbed, he winced, she cried. There wasn’t a thing he could say, but he also knew that saying anything would do. A simple “don’t go,” would unzip her bags and she’d hold him tight until they lulled one another to sleep. He knew a “please stay”, would be enough to maintain her, and a “marry me”, would be enough to keep her.

None of those soul-saving words would roll from Billy’s lips, they offered nothing and only took from his cup of bourbon, which was soon two fingers and then one. He poured another which was five fingers, or a death punch in some circles. She edged near the door and hovered a while, her silhouette descended Billy into total darkness. He thought he could hear her heartbeat, but it was his own. Her quick breaths echoed in time with his and they both paused before the gulf between them like hesitant enemies with shared roots. Which one would call out? Billy thought. Would he fold on the masculine endeavours that he was working so hard to maintain? Would the burn of the bourbon be in vain if he asked her to stay? Would she respect his decision if he was so willing to change it? The air was so dense between Billy and the door, he felt it might ignite if he lit the cigarette, he was jonesing for, he lit the cigarette, half hoping it would. Instead, the smoke escaped his chest and made for the door too, only the bourbon remained loyal.

“I don’t want this.” Her small voice cried through the cheap wood. “This is breaking my heart.” Billy’s head pounded, the pain peaked and trothed in waves lasting milliseconds, the bourbon made it worse in the long-run, but it’s powers were well spent elsewhere. “I thought we were happy?” His next exhale was slow and methodised. “Will you please speak to me?” Now a long inhale, all to combat the need to ease her pain.

“Be quiet.” He said to himself. “This is the hardest part.”

“Billy, talk to me.”

Maybe he could be better, he thought, but he never managed it on the best of days, so why now? Why only when she was a proverbial hurt? She pushed the door open, there was not enough light from the hall to see her brown eyes wide and wild with heartache. They were glossed over, pale pink and pleading, and he knew it intuitively. This was the hardest part. He took a sip from the mixer glass, set it down and then inhaled.

“Shall I go? Is that what you want?”

Exhalation, silence, headache, guilt.

“Billy?” Her voice shook. He knew that was all she had left, she had met her limit for begging. Kindly she pulled the door closed. She picked up the bags she had, walked out and crunched down the long gravel drive. Some spring flowers bloom in vain.