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Thursday May 4 2000
I am not crazy. I have never done a silly, irrational thing in my entire life. I always do the right thing. I always say the right words. No one has ever said about me, "Well, she's a little flaky, y'know, sometimes she can be sort of strange." No one could say those things about me because they're not true. I am, and have always been, perfectly sane.
But I am on the metro at eleven o'clock at night on my way to our apartment, the apartment where we both lived for six months, the apartment that we painted together. The apartment where we put up all your favourite artwork. The apartment where we hung the curtains I made.
The apartment you asked me to leave last month.
Language is funny, y'know, it's just a bunch of words that you put together to make sentences, and then sentences you put into paragraphs. But when you put certain words together, suddenly things change. Like "You should go." A noun, a verb and a, well, I don't really know what 'should' is exactly but it's really just a word. Just a bunch of words that change everything.
I finger the key in my pocket, our key, a key we bought together. It's silver, and it's got 'Ilco' stamped on it and I rub my finger along the four notches and it occurs to me. If you've changed the locks, I'm screwed. But not really, since our apartment is on the first floor and I know how to jimmy the window to get it open. I can crawl through that window with the greatest of ease, without chipping the paint off the window sill, without disrupting a single picture frame perched on the ledge. I can jimmy, creep and sneak like an FBI agent. Like a samurai. A non-flaky, completely rational samurai that works for the FBI. That's me.
I'm off the metro and walking down our street, past the all-night bakery where we had Sunday breakfast for six months straight. There's a big truck outside it, which pumps flour into underground vats and the flour escapes and rises in a mist and clouds the air. Like pixie dust. I do a little twirl because maybe it's not flour at all, maybe it really is pixie dust. You never really know.
I walk straight to our apartment boldly with purpose, like it's the most natural thing , like I'm supposed to be there. I am, after all, it's my apartment too. My name is still on the lease, and the cable bill still comes addressed to me.
I put the key in and turn and the door pops right open like it's just been waiting for me.
As soon as the door opens I smell you. I walk through the apartment in a daze. I turn on all the lights and take everything in, I don't want to miss a thing. Nothing's changed.
I run my fingers across the keys of the piano, I turn on and off, and on and off the T.V. set. I lightly finger the curtains I made, I check the cupboard to see if the coffee cup I made for you in pottery class is still there. It is.
I pick through the mail and there's the cable bill with my name right on it, for God and all the world to see.
The light on the phone blinks because you have a message but I don't listen to it because I know it's just your mom calling to ask why you never call and when will you be coming home and you won't believe what your father did yesterday and do you have enough to eat.
I put you favourite c.d. in the player and put on your favourite song and I'm singing,
Give me more and more and then some
I begin to undress. I walk down the corridor to your bedroom, our bedroom and it is exactly the same. The sheets I bought are still on the bed and my curtains are still up. I slip into your bathrobe and I'm enveloped in your smell. I rub a little of your cologne onto my wrists and make my way into the adjoining bathroom where I stand in the bathtub, just to see that my shampoo is gone (because I took it with me) but my brand (our brand) of soap is there and the towels I bought and the bottle of drain opener for the stupid sink that's always getting clogged.
I want some more and more and then some
I breeze through the living room again to go to the kitchen, to check the fridge and pantry, when I notice a letter that sits on the desk.
Hello Love,
You see what I mean about language, just words all strung together to make a sweet sounding, almost explicit little love note. A little love note that you would read and smile and then run to meet me at the all-night bakery on the corner.
Except it's not my writing.
And suddenly it hits me. I am standing in your apartment where I don't live anymore, playing your cd's and wearing your robe. I went through your mail and splashed on your cologne. And all the while you've gone to meet someone else.
If you were to catch me here, what would you say? I've committed a crime, I've broken and entered, you could charge me, I could go to jail. You wouldn't but you could. Because we broke up and I moved out and now I've crossed the line.
I cannot get out of here quickly enough, I put everything back meticulously and wash away your cologne. I've left sand in your bathtub but I cannot stay to rinse it away, suddenly I'm very aware of the fact that you could walk in at any moment and catch me. You could walk in at any moment with Someone Else.
Would you forgive me for this? For using your key and going through your mail? Would you forgive me for wearing your clothes and leaving sand in your bathtub? After all, I'm just a non-flaky, completely rational FBI samurai who really doesn't know any better.
I lock the door back and hurry up the street. I drop the key in a garbage can outside the all-night bakery, where trucks pump flour into underground vats. Flour. Not pixie dust after all. I cross the street and head down the stairs to catch the metro back to my own apartment.
Honey you know what I wanna hear
Give me some more and more and then some
Of that I love you only deal,
Of how you feel 'n then
When you done tole me about a million times how much you love me
'N you're through
Start right back in again
Missed you last night, Love
Meet me at midnight
Copyright 2000 Halima Thompson
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