Spoiled and Ungrateful

Just as my 6:30 alarm would scream through our 1-by-1,

He would roll off the bed wearing only underwear and one sock,

Shove his feet in one sandal, one slipper

And mistake my plush cotton robe for his.

Ghosting down the hall, I could hear his mess in progress

As I went to seek refuge in the shower.

As I worked mornings, he worked nights,

And somewhere between our bed and the kitchen,

We coexisted.

Through suds and soap, I had smelled coffee grounds and burning toast

And thought, “Dammit!

“He’ll leave a ring around the pot and crumbs on the counter.”

I dressed, groggy and frustrated, and found an incredible display

Of spilt milk and shredded cheese

Burners caked with grease

Grape stems making brail lines trailing from the rusting fridge to his idea

Of a breakfast feast.

But the crowning jewel of this morning routine, was his gooey, liquidy, dripping project.

The infamous broken-egg shell omelet.

Every day, every morning, I would need to wake up to the same stress filled event,

Sticky counter tops and a cracking sink full of ugly dishes,

Spilling trashcans and peeling wall paper,

Dead tulips drooping over our only piece of crystal and I’d had it.

That morning, I’m done. That day, I’d reached my point.

And like a boiling pot spews scolding steam from it’s mouth

I went up to the half sleeping man standing over the stove and yelled

“I need more! I need more!

I need excitement!

And passion!

And desire!

And love, dammit, I need better love!

Show me better love!”

And he stood there.

He was wide awake now, messy hair, bad breathe and jacked up eye brows. But nice eyes. He always had nice eyes.

and something in those eyes went dim and I watched as the 7 levels of grief distracted him.

Those nice eyes were wide with shock,

His lips spelled hurt,

His eyebrows in denial

His skin was mad

He pulled his hair

Leaking lonely tears like a warn down machine with no sign of upkeep through the years.

He closed those nice eyes and saw life without me,

Like a sad movie with some twisted happy ending,

And like a plane flying against the sun

A shadow of defeat passed over him,

Like a tired man raising a white flag to an enemy he knew he could never have joined nor defeated.

He told me nothing. We stood there frozen, until he put down the Windex and kitchen towel he was holding

And went back to bed.

I remember leaving for work that day, thinking of all the words I would say when I got home.

I replayed it over and over in my head, practicing all the insults that would be said, and I could not wait to catch him before he left for work.

I saw it like a cliff hanger in your favorite book, getting home just as his day was about to begin, throwing open the front door and…

That day I had to stay late, and that day he chose to leave early, and that time he left all together.

He left his drawers open and empty and his protein powder under the sink.

He left his mom’s Christmas gift to us and his favorite copy of War and Peace

A dull razor, favorite basketball shorts in the washer, a pocket knife, that disgusting cinnamon gum, and the house key… I found that under the welcome home doormat.

He left it all. He left me. And I don’t blame him.