The Details

This piece was modeled after Stacy Walsh’s The Kitchen
appearing in Monkey Puzzle, Fall 2008.

I. The Scene

The apartment was ours as soon as we saw it. So far, we only looked at this one, but I knew we had to get out of New Brunswick. It was suffocating me. Killing us. A new apartment would hold fresh energy. Get us away from him too. And this place had beautiful hardwood floors. I wouldn’t have to vacuum.

II. The Reality

It’s cold outside so I blow my cigarette smoke at her sweaters instead of opening a window. I don’t care how many times she complains; if she can cheat, I can smoke in the house. Someone left a bottle of Southern Comfort at the party we had for her 30th and I swig from it. I drink myself into the telephone, calling every friend who might still answer this late. Everyone is tired of my tears by now. Everyone but me, apparently.

III. The Unravelling

I doubt this conversation would be going better if I was sober. I am full of imagined memories of how her love looked when we met. Somehow I am incredulous to learn she has no plans for New Year’s Eve. She wants us to stay home and watch television. Because of my immediate and violent need for her attention, I strip myself of physical protection and throw my nakedness into the radiator. It sizzles me. She stands, reaches. I shriek and grab at her cock on the nightstand. I threaten to cut it up with a steak knife. She smirks when I fall exhausted into a pile of desperation by the laundry. She tells me she can still fuck other women with or without that cock.

IV. The Aftermath

She is driving too fast for an entrance ramp. She always drives too fast. The only thing I don’t despise about our car rides is her captivity. We shout at each other because I found an earring that isn’t mine in the backseat. I know whose it is and I put it in my pocket. She shouts “But I’m not seeing her!” at me. When she smashes into the guardrail, the airbags explode in our faces and splatter white dust in our eyes. Neither of us are surprised. We crash cars all the time.

V. The Final Gesture

Finally I rent a truck so as to escape properly. I decide that now is the right time to call a new girl. Tell her I really like her. Flirt. See if maybe she’ll fall in love with me for the sake of moving into a new relationship. A simple one that I can trust. The new girl hesitates for only a second before telling me that just like Jay-Z, she has 99 problems. I sing along, fake laugh with her until it’s time to sob, and then hang up.