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This just isn’t the kind of thing I’d normally do. It’s not. But I can’t seem to help myself when I think about you and her lying around in bed on a Sunday morning the way we used to. It just gets me riled. Makes me not myself. And I find myself doing the strangest things. Like sitting in an idling car outside your apartment. The motor thrums quietly under the pounding of my blood through my too-tight veins. Whooshing into my eardrums and out again, not making it down to my toes or fingers though. They’re freezing. December is a cold month for private stakeouts. The coffee I brought with me went cold an hour ago. I just keep sitting here. This isn’t like me at all. I’ve never been a jealous person. You know that. Remember how you used to tease me about your “other girlfriends” and I would just shrug and say “leave me your forwarding address when you go.” So I’d know where to send your mail, I meant. Not so I’d know where to hang out waiting for you to walk by. I lean to the right and click the radio back on. I snapped it off before when they stopped playing music and droned on too long about ploughs on the highways and accidents on the 427. What do I care about that? I’m not going anywhere but here and even here’s only 4 blocks away from our place. My place since you’re gone, I guess. Frankly, Sal, it pisses me off that you ran off with someone who only lives 3 blocks over and 1 block up. I mean, I think I’d be handling it okay if at least she lived in Riverdale or something and I’d never, ever have to think of running into you on the street in the morning on the way to work. But I do have to worry, every day in fact, and it makes me more mental than I might have been otherwise. Plus the temptation to stalk up and over here just to see who’s coming and who’s going. It’s too much. You should have been more considerate. That’s what I mean to tell you if you come out that wooden door and onto that wooden porch. I can already see myself pushing the car door open and catching up to you as you move along the sidewalk. Trudging silently up behind you. Maybe you don’t see me until I come up and touch your elbow because you’re moving fast. You’ve got somewhere to go. Maybe to the Starbucks for some good hot chocolate or the video store so you can cuddle up on the couch tonight and never think about me. God. You’re inconsiderate. That’s what I’ll tell you. I’ll touch your elbow and I’ll tell you all that in a low, calm voice. And I’ll wait for your response. Your green eyes will stare me down but your mouth will loosen a little when you realize it’s just that I love you. That’s the only reason I’m being so irritating, showing up like this. You’ll realize that without me having to say it and maybe you’ll say you’re sorry. That you’re sorry about her in there and for going to the video store and for leaving me in the first place. For leaving especially. And maybe you’ll say “Can I come visit you tomorrow so we can talk?” That’s really all I want you to say. I don’t expect you to come home with me now, pretend it never happened. I’m not delusional. I just want a chance to reach you, hear you, have you hear me again. Because that kind of need doesn’t just stop when someone moves out. It doesn’t just stop. My breath buckles out into the air. The heat’s on but I’ve got the window down so I can see your door better. Glass fogs up when you sit around breathing your desperation all over it. My fingers trace the steering wheel as I rest my forehead on the top of it. I slide them along the smooth nubs on the underside. Think of your skin, your smooth underside. Before I know it I’ve got my tongue running over the cold wheel and I’m fully engrossed in pretending its the ridge of your collar bone I’m licking. Lick, lick, eyes closed. Crying a little, I admit. Because I know it’s not your collar bone at all, just a stupid dirty car wheel. And that’s pretty sad. The hard rap of bone on glass shocks me and I close my mouth, but leave my forehead on the wheel. Embarrassed, I think I’ll pretend I was just sitting here like this. That’s not half as weird. “What are you doing sitting out here?” I don’t say anything. That’s not the kind of question I find easy to answer. “It’s weird to just sit around outside, don’t you think? Kind of fucked up behaviour? And you’ve been here for more than an hour. I saw you out the window.” “Sorry,” I say, not meaning sorry but not meaning anything else either. “What do you want?” “Nothing.” “Then why are you sitting here?” “Do you want to go for a drive? I thought maybe we could… go see… the ice sculptures over at city hall?” “Ice sculptures?” “I wanted to tell you…” “What?” “Nothing. Just wanted to say that I think…” “You think what?” “Merry Christmas, Sal. That’s all. I didn’t bring a present though.” You look in at me with one eyebrow cocked up the way you do when you find something a little suspicious, but in a funny way. “Oh,” you say. “Well, yeah. You too.” Encouraged, I add “And I wanted to know if you want your ring back or if I should keep it. Because I’d like to keep it. But if you want it back, you know. I just wanted to know.” You step back from the window a half step and lift your bare hand, turning pink with the cold “No, you, um, keep it. Of course.” My hand reaches to turn the key, forgetting that the car’s been idling this whole time, and the engine squeals in horror. I’m jealous of the sound. I want to make it too. Feel it creeping, lunging up through my chest. But instead I close my eyes, open them, look back out at you. You’re already walking back up your porch steps. You must be cold, only a sweater and runners on. You’re going back inside where she’s waiting for you. Probably she watched this whole thing from behind the blinds. It probably smells like dinner cooking in there. You’ve probably got people coming over later. Holiday party. Maybe it smells like cold cuts and cheese. Mulled wine on the stove, I bet. I don’t know if she’s the domestic type but she probably is since you told me before you left how “different you two are” – meaning me and her. Different. I guess so. Different because you’ll be eating all that food together. Eating it and feeling it all like love on your tongue. And you’ll be warm and full. Then you’ll be standing at the sink beside her tonight, helping her wash up when people go home. Warm and soapy and full. Different because you’ll go upstairs after that and you’ll probably lay her out on the bed and lift up her skirt the way you like to. And you’ll probably run your warm, full tongue over her warm full thighs and have her for dessert. Different because I’ve never felt so cold and empty in my whole life. I put the car into drive and my foot to the gas. Crunch slowly off and push the car out into traffic. Rather than going home, I turn right to go east all the way to Church Street. Park on the street outside the old brokers. Pawn shops smell exactly the way the band practice room did after school. Like valve oil and spit and dust. I walk up to the counter and show the man my cold hand. The ring slides off easily and he passes me a 50 dollar bill in return. 50 dollars worth of love left and I’m hungry for it. I get back into the car, let the door thump shut. Sit quiet for a moment thinking. My hand moves nervously over the bill, twisting it, folding it over and back over, nails scoring it and tearing little bits off it. I watch a couple of kids drag their toboggans down the street as I push one small bright red piece of paper after another into my mouth. Let them sit on my tongue, dissolve. Swallow. Sip the cold coffee to help it down.
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