She had dreamt of him again.
She lay in bed, hands pressed against her head. Maybe I can squeeze him out of my head, like pulp from an orange. Actually, a drill might work. She imagined boring the memory of him out of her head. She turned hastily from one side to the other. This is ridiculous. I haven’t seen him in ages. Why am I dreaming about him? Didn’t I get the point? “The point” felt like a stake being driven through her chest.
She was afraid of sleep. Even in her sleep she found no rest, no escape, from the truth. He didn’t want her. And that was it.
That should have been the end of it. That should have been enough. That should have been enough to close the case, draw the curtains, end the story, cut all ties, extinguish the flames, relinquish all hope. She remembered when she had first heard the words. She could have sworn she had felt a sense of relief, a sense of release. She remembered laughing as she called her best friend to tell her the good news.
Am I stupid? What's wrong with me? The line had been cut, the cord had been severed. She had every reason and every recourse to get up, go out and move on. Yet she couldn’t walk away, she couldn’t even place one foot in front of the other to make some cheap attempt at movement. Had she been tied to hope for too long, so long that she had forgotten how much more easily she could breathe without it?
She remembered most the morning after. The truth had been left to settle overnight and it had expanded – exploded – in her heart, leaving behind this mess for her to clean. Only, no amount of scrubbing could remove this stain.
She lay in bed. All she wanted was a way out. All she wanted was a morning after without any memory, any recollection, any sign, any trace, any hint of him. All she wanted was a morning after without any fragment of feeling, any consequences from all the tossing and turning, any possibility of possibility, any remains of yet another dream, any residue of hope.
All she wanted was him.
