The Trailer Home

19 may 2010

It was on a Wednesday when he realized he didn’t want to be with me anymore. That Wednesday seven weeks directly after he was exonerated. And my hair hung over my face, dripping into a curl from the happy joke the boys rose from. The bucket sat in the corner, seemingly untouched. The paint was on me. And they laughed and they chuckled. I was red with benzene. He never promised this wouldn’t happen. The seven months he gave to me and the fives months we retreated never promised a cold release of red accusations and fury. The fury that coated; the fury I questioned. I was alone always. I felt stupid, to express it brunt. I felt a relapse. He was better and grown and I told him I’d kiss him because we had intimate history. He asked what I’d do and I reassured we were comfortable still. I reassured because we had a spirit. He lifted to know he’d egress easily. As did the chortles and the snickers. Someone choked on his euphoria. My hair dried stiff at the thought of me lying in the grass, the first day in a long time. Him crawling over and owning a smooch on me and returning to something more worth distraction. I looked into the sky, knowing that was how we belonged. Comfort and ease. Sure, ease but not an egress. He already had me. Or I let him think he was coming and going. He was there all along. No, he was coming and going. He trotted in and trotted out and I was his fallacy of hope; a fallacy of his hope. I love you like in texts. I love you like with levity. But I knew that. I just didn’t think its extremity was so juvenile; so middle school. So rageful. I tried. I was one of two set in mind. I was devoted to a bull imitator and the bull imitator’s friends. But all I want is my notebook back because I’ve realized that I consider it as important as he does his red bucket.