This story is dedicated to Maria.
Paul left me months ago.
Six long, lonely, dreary months of endless darkness and gloom. The weeks of crying, the days of yearning for a phone call, the nights of empty wine bottles and morning headaches were all behind me.
I was healthy now, ready for a chance at a new beginning. Life was looking fresh again. The sun was bright, the air was clean. I was finally whole without him. I had loved him so deeply. It had been unnatural, unsettling, and uncontrolled. Now I could find the paper and pen before me through the fog. I could see the vision and the words. I was writing again.
Looking back, I realized the bad times were barely lingering, whereas the good times were painted like a portrait in my mind. But a portrait painted by a clown, not an artist. All that time, what did we talk about? I remembered the drinking, the parties, his friends, the football games. All of it was one big celebration. We laughed, we had sex, and we laughed some more. I could not single out one time we had a serious conversation other than an in-depth analysis of his team's fortunes on the field.
Paul left me the night my sister was tragically killed in a car accident.
I didn't think it was possible, but Mark had been a very naughty boy. Again. It wasn't enough that I had punished him once... or twice... it just seemed that he could never get enough of it. Maybe he was just lonely and thought that any attention he could get would be worth it. So I would be more than happy to oblige him.
I heard the knock on my apartment door at exactly the moment I told him to arrive. When I didn't answer, I knew he would use his key and let himself in, thinking he would be surprising me. Little did he know!