Three

Liz is on top of me, crying and punching hysterically. The feeling is not nearly as pleasant as the blow job she was just giving me in my dream. It takes me a second to accept this new reality, because truthfully I wasn’t expecting to see her again.

    ”You fucking asshole,” she screams.

    I shut my eyes and hold up my arms as her hands comes crashing down.

     What am I doing on the bathroom floor?

      ”Coward,” she yells through her sobs.

    What’s her deal?     

    More slaps. I feel her tears hit my face. I open my eyes and try to push myself back and out from under her, but she won’t move.

    Then suddenly she stops hitting me and I see the crumpled piece of paper in her other hand.

     Oh yeah.

     I reach up to put my hand on her arm to calm her down, but she swats it away and slides off of me, recoiling until she’s sitting against the door.

     I sit up and inch back to the wall. Looking down I realize I’m covered in dried vomit and blood. I get the vomit, the blood confuses me though. Then I feel my nose, broken. My head hurts so bad. I need water. Liz’s crying inturrupts my thoughts and I look at her. She’s pulled her knees close to her and head is buried in her hands. I watch her for a minute, trying to think of something to break the silence; to make things ok. If I knew what to say, maybe I would. Or would I? Is there anything I could say to make her better?

    So I wait.

    Finally, after a few minutes she looks up. I’m amazed and scared by how composed she suddenly is.

    ”Why,” she asks.

    I can’t look at her.

    ”Why,” she asks again, this time with a little more force.

    The truth would take too long.

    ”I was tired,” I reply.

    Her silence makes me look up. Just as soon as we make eye contact, I’m struck with a sudden heaviness, and seeing her pain and vulnerability makes me hate myself even more. She stares right through me, eyes searching for answers that will never come. I stare back. Emotionless, wishing I was lifeless. The harsh light of the bathroom sharpens her features. Dark streaks run down her tear stained cheeks, her lower lip trembles as she struggles to hold back her sorrow. Or maybe it’s anger, I can’t tell. I watch her as she sniffs and wipes her nose with the back of her hand, then she stands up. She looks down at me, a pathetic, disgusting vomit and bloodstained heap. We stare at each other for a few seconds, to me it feels much longer. I look away.

    Something hits me in the face. But it’s just a wadded up peice of paper, so it doesn’t hurt. I look up expecting to see Liz glaring at me, but she’s gone. I pick up the crinkled piece of paper and open it. The familiar words stare back at me, as if I needed another reminder of what I’ve become. Slowly, I stand up and turn to the sink. With each movement every vessel in my head feels like it will explode. Placing my hands on the counter so I don’t fall over, I force myself to look in the mirror. I rub my eyes and try to focus on the reflection. My hair is in natty clumps, like half-assed dreds, and my face is swollen and bruised. Blood and brown crust cover my shirt and mouth and face.

    I look like the victim of an almost successful suicide.

    I’m in too much pain to swear. I need water. I need ibuprofen. I don’t need food.

    But, I need to piss.

    Glancing at the toilet, I realize I have a big problem- the seat is down. To bend over now is to risk an aneurysm and in my condition I don’t trust my aim, so I do the next best thing and turn to the shower. If Liz walked in right now, I’d be a dead man. The one time she caught me pissing in the shower she absolutely lost her shit. “What? In the hell? Do you think you’re doing?” And for one of the few times since I’ve know her, she dropped an f-bomb. “I put my fucking bare feet in there.” I tried to explain that urine was a sterile solution. “You’re a fucking idiot,” was her response. But now, figuring she can’t possibly think any less of me, I turn on the faucet and take my piss. Then I decide to clean myself up.

    After my shower, I don’t quite feel alive, but I don’t quite feel dead either. The four ibuprofen I’d taken have started to do their job and my headache has gone from unbearable to boarderline bearable,though I’m still scared to bend over. It takes me a while, but I manage to clean up the bathroom. By the time I’m finished it looks better than it did last night. I even cleaned the toilet. Somehow, I think this will help me score points with Liz. I must still be drunk.
   I stumble down the hallway and find Liz sitting at the kitchen table reading a book, picking at a salad. Seeing me walk in, she stands up. I figure she’s leaving, so disgusted with me she can’t tolerate my presence, but she surprises me and asks, “Do you want me to make you some tomoto soup?”

     ”That’d be great,” I say unconvincingly, but with the smile of someone severely hungover.

     ”Grilled cheese?”

     ”Sure,” I reply as she hands me a glass of water.

    By now, the hot July sun tears through the worn venetian blinds which rattle with each pass of the oscillating fan that follows us around the trailer. The sounds of screaming momentarily distract me and I turn to the TV just in time to see an overweight middle-aged lady give birth in an oversized bathtub.

     ”On second thought, babe, I’ll have chicken noodle.”

     ”We don’t have chicken noodle, just tomato,” Liz replies.

     I look back to the TV and see the woman holding her newborn. They’re both covered in afterbirth. My appetite has vanished and before it has a chance to come back, Liz puts the soup and sandwich in front of me.

     ”Thanks,” I say.

     She sits down across from me and continues to read her book. I gingerly sip my soup, but then realize that she’s acting way too calm considering the shit I just pulled. Still, I don’t say anything. So, we sit there in silence, the only sounds coming from the turning pages of her book and the rythmic slurping of my soup. I don’t feel akward. The weight of forced silence doesn’t crush me. My body hurts too much to care about any of that.

     ”I’m leaving,” she says, finally breaking the impasse.

     I don’t reply

    ”I’m moving back to Minneapolis. I can’t deal with this anymore.”

    I know she wants a reaction of some sort, but I don’t have the energy to get angry. Or the emotions to be sad. And I know my apathtic reation will be too much for her to handle. “Okay,” I mutter.

    ”That’s it?” She stands up and picks up her salad bowl. “After all this time, that’s all you have to say?”

    ”What do you want me to say?”

    ”Oh, I don’t know,” she shouts, ”how about ’why’ or ‘no, I don’t want you to go.”

    ”Would it make a difference,” I ask.

    And suddenly there’s a glass and salad explosion as her bowl hits the wall beside my head. I look up and see Liz standing by the sink, back towards me, hunched over, crying. I stand up, brushing off bits of salad and glass, and walk over to her. Slowly, I wrap my arm around her waist and she leans her head onto my shoulder.

    ”It’s good you’re leaving,” I whisper. “You deserve better.”