flights, running out of breath after the rushed walk home. I walk in, setting my purse on the table by the window. I like the view from his apartment because it’s the opposite of mine. It gives me a new perspective. He leans against the kitchen archway and watches me. The arch is a comforting design feature in the otherwise modern apartment. “The spare room has fresh sheets oooor you can crash in my room,” he says like he’s joking, but I know he’s not.
The offer makes me smile, but just slightly because we haven’t been lovers in a long time. “We’re better as friends,” I gently remind.
He crosses his arms over his chest, and says, “No harm in trying.”
His intense dark eyes follow me around the room. His eyes are blue, but so different from Dylan’s. His are the deepest oceans and Dylan’s the sky above.
The weight of his gaze lays heavy on me, scanning my back as I look out over the street, spotting a pocket view of a lamp in the park. I turn and insist, “I’m tired.”
“You know where everything is.”
“I do.” I breeze past him as if I own the place. In a way I do. It’s a second home to me. I have some of my things, my belongings stashed around, in the bathroom, in the bedroom—the guest bedroom. My vitamins reside in the kitchen. Just things, inconsequential things.
I stop in the doorway to the guest room before I disappear for the night. “Thank you.”
“You’re always welcome here, but next time, use your key.”
That makes me smile, a real one, genuine in its roots. “Goodnight, Brandon.”
“Sweet dreams, Jules.”
Dylan’s intrusion into my life tonight has caused an imbalance in my world. My dreams aren’t sweet. I’m restless, even at his place, where I used to find solace. Memories of the night he left me flood my dreams…
Reality strikes at the exhibit. I lose my mind and my new client when I breakdown in the back room. I had just sold a painting and pulled it from the collection at the request of the buyer. Behind what I thought were closed doors, I cried. Reflexively, I rub the canvas with my hand in an attempt to wipe the tears away, but the paint smears under my touch. The tips of my long brown hair also leaving their own distinctive mark.
My tears ruined his masterpiece—a piece the artist just painted live in front of potential customers. I’m called unprofessional and careless, and in his fit of rage, the artist refuses to work with me again, my tears costing him a five thousand dollar reward for his time and talent. The loss of the love of my life cost me more. He didn’t seem to care about that. Artists can be testy that way. He broke the frame and trashed the painting when the buyer pulled out of the deal, not wanting my common problems splattered on his painting.
When a customer overheard the argument, he reassured, “It will be okay. I promise.”
At the time, it was hard to believe his words. They still haunt me because I want to believe, but can’t seem to hold onto them.
When I return home late that night, the car is not parked out front and the apartment is bare. Dylan hated that car, he hated the furniture, he hated his life. Yet, he still took it away. He took everything he hated, except for me.
Nothing remains in the place we called home except a twenty-five dollar coffee maker and my clothes dumped on the floor because he took the dresser.
I kick off my shoes and go to make myself a cup of coffee, but he took the beans that I had freshly ground this morning. Now I have a coffeepot with no coffee to go in it. I drop to the floor in the kitchen and fall apart, completely apart, my heart shattering into a million pieces. The gallery breakdown was just the predecessor of what was to come. This is the remains of my life, the end as I know it. In the course of a ten hour absence, my life was packed and moved to another location never to be seen again.
All the love we shared has vanished like Dylan, the coffee, and the
The offer makes me smile, but just slightly because we haven’t been lovers in a long time. “We’re better as friends,” I gently remind.
He crosses his arms over his chest, and says, “No harm in trying.”
His intense dark eyes follow me around the room. His eyes are blue, but so different from Dylan’s. His are the deepest oceans and Dylan’s the sky above.
The weight of his gaze lays heavy on me, scanning my back as I look out over the street, spotting a pocket view of a lamp in the park. I turn and insist, “I’m tired.”
“You know where everything is.”
“I do.” I breeze past him as if I own the place. In a way I do. It’s a second home to me. I have some of my things, my belongings stashed around, in the bathroom, in the bedroom—the guest bedroom. My vitamins reside in the kitchen. Just things, inconsequential things.
I stop in the doorway to the guest room before I disappear for the night. “Thank you.”
“You’re always welcome here, but next time, use your key.”
That makes me smile, a real one, genuine in its roots. “Goodnight, Brandon.”
“Sweet dreams, Jules.”
Dylan’s intrusion into my life tonight has caused an imbalance in my world. My dreams aren’t sweet. I’m restless, even at his place, where I used to find solace. Memories of the night he left me flood my dreams…
Reality strikes at the exhibit. I lose my mind and my new client when I breakdown in the back room. I had just sold a painting and pulled it from the collection at the request of the buyer. Behind what I thought were closed doors, I cried. Reflexively, I rub the canvas with my hand in an attempt to wipe the tears away, but the paint smears under my touch. The tips of my long brown hair also leaving their own distinctive mark.
My tears ruined his masterpiece—a piece the artist just painted live in front of potential customers. I’m called unprofessional and careless, and in his fit of rage, the artist refuses to work with me again, my tears costing him a five thousand dollar reward for his time and talent. The loss of the love of my life cost me more. He didn’t seem to care about that. Artists can be testy that way. He broke the frame and trashed the painting when the buyer pulled out of the deal, not wanting my common problems splattered on his painting.
When a customer overheard the argument, he reassured, “It will be okay. I promise.”
At the time, it was hard to believe his words. They still haunt me because I want to believe, but can’t seem to hold onto them.
When I return home late that night, the car is not parked out front and the apartment is bare. Dylan hated that car, he hated the furniture, he hated his life. Yet, he still took it away. He took everything he hated, except for me.
Nothing remains in the place we called home except a twenty-five dollar coffee maker and my clothes dumped on the floor because he took the dresser.
I kick off my shoes and go to make myself a cup of coffee, but he took the beans that I had freshly ground this morning. Now I have a coffeepot with no coffee to go in it. I drop to the floor in the kitchen and fall apart, completely apart, my heart shattering into a million pieces. The gallery breakdown was just the predecessor of what was to come. This is the remains of my life, the end as I know it. In the course of a ten hour absence, my life was packed and moved to another location never to be seen again.
All the love we shared has vanished like Dylan, the coffee, and the
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