That’s Him

That’s him. I don’t have to look up to know. The front door opens so gently I only just hear it. Heat rises to my eyes, forming a film that blurs my vision.

“Amy! You here?” He calls as though he has no idea why I asked to meet.

“In the kitchen.” I didn’t expect him to hear me; my voice is below a whisper and just manages to catch the air. But because he knows me best, he doesn’t need to know what I said to know which room to head into.

My eyes are fixed to the floor, tracing the plastered trail between every tile. I swear I could draw the wall with my eyes closed (if I could draw, that is). White shoes interrupt the constant pattern on the floor, pulling me from my trance. His Air Force 1s are slightly engulfed by his tinted jeans, bleached to perfection.

“Jeans? What’s the occasion?” I smirk. Still not mustering up strength to make eye contact.

“Oh these old things. Tried to switch it up…”

He notices. In that instant, he has read my demeanour and concludes something is up.

“Sit down. I made pancakes.” I finally meet his gaze. It’s like looking into my dog’s eyes – an open book, with all the concern in the world wrapped into a slight tilt of his head to the left. “Coffee?”

Then we’re off: he fills the coffee mug with water, I turn to plug in the coffee machine, he swings the fridge open and I grab the sugar container. The chill of the fridge rushes down my legs and I shiver. No more excuses. You have to deal with it now. Potentially the last morning. We gel so well together that I forget a person begins on this earth alone.

Once the room has been marinated in the smell of coffee, I sit down with his mug and let him in. I let my eyes say it all.

“I love you. Please know that.” No turning back now. “I’ve been alone for a long time. I don’t know if you have noticed but I can’t date a ghost anymore. Who are you? Because I sure as hell don’t know. I’m so comfortable with you that I’ve become complacent with being unhappy. I am not happy.” I stare beyond him into the white wall. Its blankness keeps me in the room but out of this world: out of the situation I’m in. Into a place where it’s all better. And when I realise that place no longer consists of him, I break down.

Now his eyes are unlocked. He never responds on impulse, so I wait to let his speech process in his head like the true editor he is. That’s how we work. I bring up the problem and he takes days to voice his opinion. But this time I don’t have days.