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Calling It Quits

He's young. He thinks that he knows what there is to know. He smokes too many cigarettes. He drinks too much sometimes. He loves his girl with all of his heart, and he sometimes thinks that might be too much, too, but doesn't know how to love her any less. He's got too much attitude, and he knows it, but doesn't know how to change that, either. He's young. He thinks he knows all there is to know, but it's not enough.

She's killing me here. She pulls me close and then pushes me away, tells me she loves me as she tells me she's leaving. She does this again and again. She tells me she's leaving me because she loves me. That she loves me enough to leave me. What the fuck does that mean? She always comes back, though. Always. I don't know if I want her to anymore. Maybe it's kind of the same thing, like when she leaves because she loves me. Maybe I sometimes don't want her to come back because I love her. Maybe I think that if she wants to leave, if she needs to leave, that badly, that maybe she should.

Maybe I'm as fucked up as she thinks I am.

Maybe I don't care anymore. Maybe I don't love her. What if I just want her to go because I'm a selfish bastard who just wants to live his life without any ties, free, free, free? What if that's it? Maybe if she leaves, leaves for good, it won't hurt like I think it will. If she leaves, I won't have to think about her anymore. Won't have to hold her till she falls asleep. Won't have to lie there next to her in the dark and stay awake just to listen to her breathe.

If she leaves, I'll be okay. I'll be just fine. I don't need her. She's gotta know that, that I don't need her, 'cause maybe that's why she keeps going. Why she keeps coming back to me, I don't know. Seems like she doesn't want to. Her face looks like she doesn't want to, but also kind of like she can't stop herself.

She's killing me.

I think that maybe I've had enough to drink. Not too much - I need to stay steady on my feet here. Can't get out of control; I've got to take care of myself. No one else to take care of me. I grin, looking down into my glass of beer. I can take care of myself. Don't think there's any choice there. I'm okay, I'll be just fine. This beer, and then I'll get up and head home. I pick up the beer, swallow it down, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Get up, and I'm only a little unsteady. Maybe not enough to drink; definitely not enough to forget her, to forget what she said. But enough for here. I'll go home and drink some more. Alone.

I'm cold the second I step outside the bar. The wind bites right through my leather jacket and I tug it closer around me. I don't have far to go. It's close enough to walk, and I leave my car at the curb. I'll pick it up tomorrow. I could use the walk. I shove my hands in my pockets and head down the street. It's late, after midnight, and the streetlights catch my shadow. I duck my head further so I don't have to see and stride faster, till I start to think about what there is to go home to. Nothing. I slow down. It's late, but not too late. I've had too much to drink, but not enough. She loves me, but only enough to leave me.

Fuck.

I take the stairs two at a time when I get to the building, my heavy boots creating pounding echoes and fuck what the neighbors think. I drop my keys twice trying to get in the door and I think that I've had too much to drink. I get the door open and go in, slam it shut behind me. The apartment is dark and quiet and suddenly I don't want to be here. I sit down on the floor, lean back against the door in the dark. I don't want to be here.

"It's not enough, Ray."

"What's not enough?" And I'm mad, so mad here, wish I could hurt her like she's hurting me.

"This, Ray!" is what she says. You, Ray, is what I hear. She's got her hands up in her hair, like she can't stand it, is going to lose her mind trying to explain to me what I'm too stupid to see. "All of this. I can't do this. I don't want this."

"Stell..." I say and even to me it sounds so pathetic. Why can't I be hard and mean with her, like she is with me?

"Don't," she says sharply. "Don't do this to me, don't make me the bad guy. You know this isn't right, you feel it, too. I know you feel it, too." She's in my face now, right up in my face.

"No, Stella." Her name comes out like a curse. "I don't know, I don't feel it." I can feel the anger bubbling up inside, strong, strong. My hands are curled into fists, tight, as my heart beats wildly, tries to stay one step ahead of this, one step ahead of her.

"Oh, right, Ray," she says, so sarcastic and cold that it makes me ache. "I know you don't feel it. What do you want from me here? What do you want me to tell you?"

"The truth," It's like the words are grinding out of me as I try to hold myself together.

"Sure," she says, all mocking, and she's still so close to me. "What do you want to hear, Ray, that you're not enough for me? Is that what you want to hear?"

She's trying to be so hard, but she's young, and even I can see it, can see how the desperation bleeds through. How she wants to leave but can't see how, so she's here, in my face, in my space, trying so hard to provoke me. I can see it, in the wild whites of her eyes, how it's almost as if she wants to push me hard, so hard, get me so angry that I'll hit her. Because if I hit her, there's her ticket. Her get-out-of-jail-free card. She can leave and it won't be her fault. It'll be mine, and she always, always wants it to be my fault.

I could never in a million years hit her, but I guess she thinks I could.

She's killing me.

All I can do is breathe, and I do, I breathe, and breathe, and look at her face. And she's bitter and angry, and I think that maybe she's right, when she says I don't know her. And then she softens, but it's pity, not love, and she murmurs, "Oh, Ray."

I catch hold of her arm as she brushes by me, but she twists away without looking at me and she is so fucking gone it isn't funny. Like she's not even here, she's gone, and I slam out the door, leave her behind, because maybe I love her enough to leave her.

Maybe I do.

And now it's me alone, on the floor of the apartment, my back pressed against the door as I look up at the ceiling in the dark. I think about wanting her and then I think, be careful what you wish for. And I don't know what else to wish for, because it's always been her. Even when I have her, she's what I wish for.

I think that maybe it's time I learned how to wish for something else.

~end~

End Calling It Quits by witchbaby: brooklinegirl@rcn.com

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