The Big Simple

He was beginning to get on my nerves. He was envious of my ability to live in the shadow of nostalgia. He believed that my being enamored with the past was a sign of the times. A sign of my immaturity. Who knows? Maybe in the Bermuda Triangle, that philosophy would have been an accurate conviction. But not here, not when the rest of us were stateside in reality.

He made a mess of everything he ever touched and only he had a cognizance of the depth of that statement. He broke my wounded heart time and again, just to prove he could. Not to me. Not to them. He needed to prove it to himself.

So every now and then, after a glass of vodka, my inhibitions would wear thin--and so would my self worth. And when the weakness would seep up through my knees, I would stare at him across from the room. While deep in serious conversation with an acquaintance, I made it a point to cross the great divide and he would stand there with his back turned.

Until he could no longer take it. And my judgment was always impaired by the clasp of his hand with mine. It was the perfect erasure to what was lingering in the back of my mind.

There was no greater thief. He knew exactly how to lift the agony that plagued me last September. And the only thing I could take solace in was when he grabbed my waist and held me close. Our breaths enmeshed and intoxicating, loitering only for us to call each other's bluff.

But this time I knew when to leave. It was Tuesday and I was getting older. We were company and all the more unadorned for missing the point.