Leaving and other sessions

Leaving and Other Sessions

It was her 5th nap of the day. Her rumbling stomach—satisfied by a trip to the convenience store this lunch—woke her up. Eating, unlike other days, had been more of a necessity than a whim. Waking up, on the other hand, had been more like a choice than a routine. Days like this gave her the benefit of choosing when to wake up, where to wake up.

She finished half of her beer the day her day job walked out on her. On happier days, she could finish half a case—even better when prodded by a good company, greener jokes, and fake guts. On drunker days, everything is magnified: punchlines are funnier, friends are dirtier, and everything else, including the sentiments some try to nurse, becomes an open wound wanting to be healed by brewed malt. She thought she could trade one day of soberness for one bottle of beer. (She doesn’t need much of it anyway.)

The weather in the city is a combination of tasteless smell, cold breeze, and polite gestures of TVCs urging dwellers to worm through the malls and waste money. Christmas has been a favourite season. Everything else changed when her dad passed away.

Computer shops, to her surprise, still existed. Oftentimes, she’d found herself sandwiched between a high school kid playing video games and a middle-aged woman logged on to Skype. It had been two weeks since her internet connection at home had been cut. Friends, those that she shares intangible elements with, had been tossing out guesses in her absence. Some hypothesized death (dark humour, she believed), some thought elopement, while others, the ones closest to her, knew it was just one of those days when she would disappear without goodbye. Sometimes, absence has a way of knowing who remembers.

Leaving had been a habit—a dangerous one, to some extent. Alternating her routes in an attempt to avoid some people proved to be the best antidote. For the past years, her life had been had been about that: moving from one’s space to another’s, planting feelings to some place she arrives, leaving them unwatered, until it withers and she’s ready to move on to another. “Disclosure” is a word that needs breathing space in her vocabulary.

B is back. As wrecked and fucked up as her life already is, she still had the balls to welcome him back.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s