If only we could be together like the old days. Your pretty face keeps haunting me every night. And when I try to close my eyes during the day, I hear your voice calling me the usual mean names you were so keen at. I've to say I hated it. I hated those moments when you treated me like a kid, humiliated me in front of every single person we knew around the corner. But then I never said anything back. I never had the courage to tell you off. To tell you STOP. I guess I just took it all in until the day I kissed you and got slammed on my face right away because I almost ruined your lipstick (I still don't understand how...), and left without telling you where I was going. It was amazing, how you only noticed my absence a month later. I was really desperate for your phone call at night asking me where the hell I was. I waited and waited like a miserable little retarded man until you finally decided to call. I felt butterflies when I heard your voice. I couldn't understand a word you were saying though, 'cause all I was focused on was your breathy voice. I was hoping you would ask me back and apologize for the constant mental abuse you had been doing to me for the past 2 years. But nothing. The lasts words I could finally paid attention were: "I need you to sort out my final credit card payment, then you can pick up your stuff and go to hell with your stupid terrier". And so I went to the bank straight away, sorted out what you asked me to, picked up my boy which had clearly gained weight because you over fed him by leaving the entire pack of dog food nearby the door and came back to my studio flat which was only across your flat. Yes, that's why you didn't really notice I wasn't around until you no longer had your clothes ironed properly, the toilet cleaned with fresh smell and flowers to ornament the tiny little old breakfast table. Anyway, this is the last time I'm writing you. But again, I don't think you really care. Because I caught you using the letter I wrote you last week to get rid of the gum glued beneath your heels. Nice. I'm moving to somewhere else. No, not a few steps away from where I am. It's somewhere much further. I hope by then, you would really take notice of me not being around anymore.
It's about time you clean the toilet. You do the dishes. You iron your own clothes.
Love you always (I know I shouldn't),
Your imaginary slave/boyfriend
2 comments:
As good as always, Francesca. You seem to know a lot about the little details that poison and keep alive relationships. And about longing, about losing, about lover's contradiction.
Do I? There are times when I think those emotions have lived with me for so long, I can't even differentiate what's fiction nor reality anymore...
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