A Brief Survey of a Failed Relationship
She walked in through the main entrance as he stood in the foyer minding his own business, unaware of the change coming into his existence.
The ancient belief came true, and light stood still in the foyer of his life, and the image before him left an imprint in his brain that he will never forget:
Light scattered around her visage, leaving her to glow like something slightly more beautiful than an angel, yet smaller in figure—rays of light spearing through her strands of auburn.
To enjoy what was in front of him was a child’s task; to relish in what was in front of him was the only correct thing to do: he would relish in her glow for as long as she would let him.
“Excuse me,” she said, floating past him, eyes not quite meeting, but hers close enough to grow accustomed to the shape of his collar on his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her hand brushing against the sleeve of his coat. He would never forget that first moment of contact, even if it was obstructed by fabric.
“No worries,” he managed to get out, staring at her back as she inched further and further into the store. As she inched further and further away from him.
He knew things would not be the same after seeing her rosy cheeks, gently touched by makeup, after seeing her strong, yet feminine jawline—after seeing her glow like something celestial.
People spend their whole lives searching for something to make them whole, he thought, And I, I have found my something early. His searching, for all intents and purposes, was over.
Going into the store to search for her, even after already paying for his groceries, was different of course—a different type of searching indeed.
It was not an abstract search, like a metal detector on a beach, but rather very definitive, like looking for the lost remote in the couch cushions, but he did not wish to change the channel; he wished to turn the volume up, to brighten the color.
He found her with a shopping basket hanging off her right forearm, in the coffee aisle. He watched her arm stretch out and grab a box of single-use, medium roast coffee cups.
Staring for too long had always been his forte, and he employed it readily, now, in the coffee aisle; she looked over her right shoulder and locked eyes with the man who had found his remote.
“You’re not stalking me, are you?” she asked, with more of a playful tone than anything else, but when a decent man hears such questions, fear finds a home in his brain.
“No, no, no, no, no, of course not” came gushing out of his mouth like a geyser and she giggled immediately after, effectively cutting him off from spilling out any more fearful trills.
In her laughter he was able to regain some composure, but only so much could be regained while standing in the coffee aisle holding two bags of groceries and a gallon of milk.
“What brings you back into the store?” she asked, and he stared at her for a moment until he realized she was talking to him and not the coffee on the shelves.
“You,” he said, obviously by accident, but still very matter-of-fact like and determined. She stared for a long time at him, thinking.
“Me?” she asked.
“You,” he replied, and swallowed.
“Why me?” she said. Instead of taking a step back, like most would do in this situation, the woman took a step forward, closer to the man. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Explain it to me,” she said, and took another step forward. They were now in arm’s reach of each other, not that he would have the courage to touch something so sacred, so worthy.
“You look like you would complete me, and I would try my best to complete you,” he said, red in the face, hands in a cold sweat.
“What a pickup line,” she said, and ran her fingers through her hair, moving it from the front of her shoulder to behind it.
“Not a pickup line,” he replied, “but rather a lifeline.” He was not sure what he meant by this, so there was no way she could know what he meant by this, but it still felt true, and so he stuck with it, adding nothing more.
“I like that,” she said, her index finger tapping her chin. “Maybe I could grow to like you.” Something so forward and blunt had never been said to the man before, and like caffeine in veins, her words rushed through his neurons.
This woman, so blunt and so forward and so beautiful and so unabashed, shared phone numbers with the man in the coffee aisle, and then they walked opposite directions down the same aisle.
Text messages between the two turned into phone calls, and those phone calls turned into dates; the dates, as it goes, turned into talks of exclusivity, and then they found themselves happy in each other’s arms.
“I am happy with you,” he says to her as he holds her on his couch.
“I am happy with you,” she replies while nestling herself more into his arms on a couch that may become hers, too, some day soon.
The two move into an apartment together, and keep his couch but get a new coffee table.
It is spring and the sun shines vibrantly into their living room in the afternoons, lighting her hair on fire.
They go to bed every night together and make sure to kiss each other’s forehead and say “I love you.”
Love wanes and waxes, like the moon herself, and some are not able to ride through the waning.
Routines settle in and things start to feel monotonous for a while, with both wishing for more.
Sometimes, her looking out of the corners of her eyes for something more.
Two years since the grocery store, their hearts have swelled for each other, and have cried for each other.
But, as it sometimes goes for those who do not truly share two halves of one soul, their hearts are now fatigued of each other.
“It is not you, and it is not me,” she says moments after confessing that she is no longer happy with him.
After her talk of growing, and growing apart, and how no one is to blame, all he replies with is: “I understand.”
“How do you feel?” she asks, as if any response would change the outcome.
“I guess the same,” he says, staring at a single tile on the floor of their kitchen—of what was once their kitchen.
After more packing, and a few tears, and no kiss and no hug goodbye, she leaves the apartment, the coffee table in her rented Uhaul.
The place is left for him and his couch and for the groceries he would now buy alone.
She completed him in the two years, but he could never quite complete her.
Sometimes people grow apart, and sometimes, such as in this case, people fall apart.
He begins to drink.
And call into work “sick.”
And neglect the needs of his stomach, brain, and muscles.
Atrophying in all areas.
Months pass, and he finds himself in the same store where he and she met, buying more liquor.
He sees her in the wine aisle, a red blend in hand.
She turns and sees him, and they stare for a long time.
He does not look well, and she still glows.
“It is nice to see you,” she says.
He stares.
“I miss you,” he says, apathetic and unwell and numb.
“I’m sorry.”
It seems as though it is easier for things to fall apart than for them to stay together, he thinks.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asks, as if there were anything she could do.
“I do not believe so.”
“I will always be here for you if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Well, I’ve got to get going.”
She turns around and begins walking away.
He shouts to her: “I think a part of me will always love all of you.”
Her auburn hair is the last piece of her that he sees.
He is left alone in an aisle with alcohol that is colored much too similarly like her hair, and so he leaves, empty-handed, knowing that he lied to her—that, in fact, all of him will always love all of her.
The ancient belief came true, and light stood still in the foyer of his life, and the image before him left an imprint in his brain that he will never forget:
Light scattered around her visage, leaving her to glow like something slightly more beautiful than an angel, yet smaller in figure—rays of light spearing through her strands of auburn.
To enjoy what was in front of him was a child’s task; to relish in what was in front of him was the only correct thing to do: he would relish in her glow for as long as she would let him.
“Excuse me,” she said, floating past him, eyes not quite meeting, but hers close enough to grow accustomed to the shape of his collar on his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her hand brushing against the sleeve of his coat. He would never forget that first moment of contact, even if it was obstructed by fabric.
“No worries,” he managed to get out, staring at her back as she inched further and further into the store. As she inched further and further away from him.
He knew things would not be the same after seeing her rosy cheeks, gently touched by makeup, after seeing her strong, yet feminine jawline—after seeing her glow like something celestial.
People spend their whole lives searching for something to make them whole, he thought, And I, I have found my something early. His searching, for all intents and purposes, was over.
Going into the store to search for her, even after already paying for his groceries, was different of course—a different type of searching indeed.
It was not an abstract search, like a metal detector on a beach, but rather very definitive, like looking for the lost remote in the couch cushions, but he did not wish to change the channel; he wished to turn the volume up, to brighten the color.
He found her with a shopping basket hanging off her right forearm, in the coffee aisle. He watched her arm stretch out and grab a box of single-use, medium roast coffee cups.
Staring for too long had always been his forte, and he employed it readily, now, in the coffee aisle; she looked over her right shoulder and locked eyes with the man who had found his remote.
“You’re not stalking me, are you?” she asked, with more of a playful tone than anything else, but when a decent man hears such questions, fear finds a home in his brain.
“No, no, no, no, no, of course not” came gushing out of his mouth like a geyser and she giggled immediately after, effectively cutting him off from spilling out any more fearful trills.
In her laughter he was able to regain some composure, but only so much could be regained while standing in the coffee aisle holding two bags of groceries and a gallon of milk.
“What brings you back into the store?” she asked, and he stared at her for a moment until he realized she was talking to him and not the coffee on the shelves.
“You,” he said, obviously by accident, but still very matter-of-fact like and determined. She stared for a long time at him, thinking.
“Me?” she asked.
“You,” he replied, and swallowed.
“Why me?” she said. Instead of taking a step back, like most would do in this situation, the woman took a step forward, closer to the man. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“Explain it to me,” she said, and took another step forward. They were now in arm’s reach of each other, not that he would have the courage to touch something so sacred, so worthy.
“You look like you would complete me, and I would try my best to complete you,” he said, red in the face, hands in a cold sweat.
“What a pickup line,” she said, and ran her fingers through her hair, moving it from the front of her shoulder to behind it.
“Not a pickup line,” he replied, “but rather a lifeline.” He was not sure what he meant by this, so there was no way she could know what he meant by this, but it still felt true, and so he stuck with it, adding nothing more.
“I like that,” she said, her index finger tapping her chin. “Maybe I could grow to like you.” Something so forward and blunt had never been said to the man before, and like caffeine in veins, her words rushed through his neurons.
This woman, so blunt and so forward and so beautiful and so unabashed, shared phone numbers with the man in the coffee aisle, and then they walked opposite directions down the same aisle.
Text messages between the two turned into phone calls, and those phone calls turned into dates; the dates, as it goes, turned into talks of exclusivity, and then they found themselves happy in each other’s arms.
“I am happy with you,” he says to her as he holds her on his couch.
“I am happy with you,” she replies while nestling herself more into his arms on a couch that may become hers, too, some day soon.
The two move into an apartment together, and keep his couch but get a new coffee table.
It is spring and the sun shines vibrantly into their living room in the afternoons, lighting her hair on fire.
They go to bed every night together and make sure to kiss each other’s forehead and say “I love you.”
Love wanes and waxes, like the moon herself, and some are not able to ride through the waning.
Routines settle in and things start to feel monotonous for a while, with both wishing for more.
Sometimes, her looking out of the corners of her eyes for something more.
Two years since the grocery store, their hearts have swelled for each other, and have cried for each other.
But, as it sometimes goes for those who do not truly share two halves of one soul, their hearts are now fatigued of each other.
“It is not you, and it is not me,” she says moments after confessing that she is no longer happy with him.
After her talk of growing, and growing apart, and how no one is to blame, all he replies with is: “I understand.”
“How do you feel?” she asks, as if any response would change the outcome.
“I guess the same,” he says, staring at a single tile on the floor of their kitchen—of what was once their kitchen.
After more packing, and a few tears, and no kiss and no hug goodbye, she leaves the apartment, the coffee table in her rented Uhaul.
The place is left for him and his couch and for the groceries he would now buy alone.
She completed him in the two years, but he could never quite complete her.
Sometimes people grow apart, and sometimes, such as in this case, people fall apart.
He begins to drink.
And call into work “sick.”
And neglect the needs of his stomach, brain, and muscles.
Atrophying in all areas.
Months pass, and he finds himself in the same store where he and she met, buying more liquor.
He sees her in the wine aisle, a red blend in hand.
She turns and sees him, and they stare for a long time.
He does not look well, and she still glows.
“It is nice to see you,” she says.
He stares.
“I miss you,” he says, apathetic and unwell and numb.
“I’m sorry.”
It seems as though it is easier for things to fall apart than for them to stay together, he thinks.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asks, as if there were anything she could do.
“I do not believe so.”
“I will always be here for you if you need anything.”
“Thank you,” he says.
“Well, I’ve got to get going.”
She turns around and begins walking away.
He shouts to her: “I think a part of me will always love all of you.”
Her auburn hair is the last piece of her that he sees.
He is left alone in an aisle with alcohol that is colored much too similarly like her hair, and so he leaves, empty-handed, knowing that he lied to her—that, in fact, all of him will always love all of her.
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