IT was unheard of.
I had done it nevertheless.
I walked out of my significant other’s life, alone in a strange city, to a shabby single room apartment.
It was one of those days, when everything was wrong. When your heart was heavy with the absolute mindnumbingness of your 9 to 5 desk job.
When you returned home to a man who was so accustomed to your presence that he didn’t look up when you came in.
When your legs had stubble from the last time you had bothered to shave, because no one would notice.
My resolve broke while I was staring at the ceiling during the weekly missionary sex.
Suddenly, instead of the hot heavy breath of the man I had spent years with, I longed for a burst of fresh air.
I wanted my freedom back.
The freedom of wearing spaghetti tops and eating cookie dough while dancing to Justin Timberlake’s sexy back.
The freedom to turn my head and check out a tight ass in a subway.
The freedom of a drink too many, and the hands of a sweet voiced Parisian.
So I walked out, without an explanation, in my heart I knew he was relieved too.
There was only so long he could derive voyeuristic pleasures from his silicon implant secretary; restraining himself because I did his laundry and had a nose like a fox.
We were an unmarried fun loving couple.
We needed to live.
We needed to separate.
So here I was, in an apartment that was hillariously shabby, given the rather generous beggarly pay I got from my thankless job.
Which reminds me.
I need to type out my resignation letter.
Then I will be free.
To do what? Heaven knows.
Three weeks of strange men, alone nights, alcohol induced bad judgements.
Three weeks of reading every novel I had laid aside.
Three weeks of endless self indulgence and brief moments of lying flat on the floor in acute throes of identity crisis.
I Needed to get my life back in order. But I refused to reinstall the old broken elevator.
I couldn’t go back to what three weeks of moral degeneration had been necessary to dilute.
In such a harrowing situation, I was out shopping for more unhygienic food in my local grocery.
Deeply absorbed in the inconsequential details of a can of baked beans; I tripped and fell flat on my face.
Such a fall, with my bags spraying cans of fizzed drinks and eggs lying cracked on the isle.
And I had my face caked in flour.
In such a moment of athletic glory, I lifted my head to see the edge of a black guitar.
A girl, typical gothic style hair with a terrible scorpion inked on her wrist stood before me, holding out a hand with a look of pity.
My egg-flour encrusted hand grasped her scorpion inked one as she helped up a mentally retarded me.
Talk about awkward.
My shirt was coated with egg white and fizz, my hair was decorated with studs of sugar candy.
Yes I shopped like I was baking a birthday cake for a three year old.
And I looked like a clown.
“Would you like to clean up? My apartment is right across the street.”
I realised the goth girl was still talking to me.
She had a stud on her lip, and a broken accent- Scottish maybe.
Her eyes were lined with kohl, and maybe a little bleary from god knows what drug was raging at the moment.
However,there was no way I could travel along a road dotted with potential soul mates with egg yolk outlining my inadequate breasts.
I realised I hadn’t replied, and she was slowly turning away with an assurance that I needed medical help and a couple of shock therapies.
“W-wait up. I would be glad if you could help me out.”
She nodded and led me out without further delay.
Or at least she aattempted to.
She was stopped because I had damaged a lot of goods. And I hadn’t paid for the useless items which was littered on the floor which these miserly bastards would probably filter and reuse.
By the time I cleared the accounts, the condiments had congealed on my shirt. I smelled like a dying duck and was well and thoroughly broke.
I think I would be jumping of the bridge tonight.
But first. Let me go to a strange Goth girls house to use her shower and wear her clothes.
Because uh. You only live once I guess.
Her apartment would shame a slum dwellers in its deplorable condition.
What had I expected, stained glass windows and paintings by Rothko?
Well I got black walls and piles of mesy clothing stuffed around with guitars and records strewn across the floor.
I am pretty sure I saw a few needles in the cluttered sitting room. There was a room in the corner, its door shut.
As the only other room was a small cubicle called a bathroom, so I presumed the former to be the bedroom.
There was no sign of a kitchen.
Maybe she drank blood, some part of my mind mumbled.
“I guess we are of the same size”
The way she said it, with a cursory glance over my figure, it startled me.
I had never been looked at in such a strangely objective way.
She bent down to retrieve an oversized shirt with a pair of jeans that would never fit me.
I kept quiet though, gingerly stepping into the bathroom.
Then to my shock, she followed me inside.
Thoughts of homosexual forced advantage and the feel of her soft figure on mine warred in my mind before I realised she had been talking.
“The knob has to be lifted for hot water, is that clear?” She repeated the words slowly and distinctly, like I was an exceptionally slow child.
I flushed and nodded, feeling embarassed and awkward. Kicking my self in my imaginary balls.
With imaginary kicks. I am pretty sure I am incapable of a real one.
When she left the bathroom, I locked the door behind her, feeling unusually nervous as I took off my clothes in a stranger’s bathroom.
Ten mins later as I emerged, wearing only the shirt because the jeans hadn’t obviously fit me, I was greeted with strange heavy noises.
Looking around I saw the door to the bedroom open. on a bed, the girl lay with her legs splayed, her beautiful black hair flowing back from side of the bed.
A man, who looked like a sculptured Greek God lay bent over her, one arm protectively hugging her waist as he moved over her.
Wavelike turquoise tattoos on his back were set alight by sunlight from a window behind the bed.
The only sound was of them making love.
And that of my heart racing with a rush of foreign awkward feelings.
I turned to rush out of the apartment, banging the door shut behind me before realising, I was only in a tshirt.
But on no cost would I go back and interrupt them.
I stood there frozen and puzzled on the landing, confused and distraught.
Finally I called up Jacob, the only man I knew who would not judge me, irrespective of whatever I had done to us.
Fifteen minutes later his car pulled up, and I crashed into his familiar arms.
I don’t know what he imagined I had been doing half naked in the apartment, but he knew me. He asked no questions.
Making love in the back seat of a car had never felt so thrilling.
As light fell on his face, I realised he had been working out again.
The listlessness that had been chasing me began to dissipate as I felt his warmth seep in through the chill of being alone.
As I lay there, in a strangers oversized black shirt, the world red under my closed eyelids in the warm sunlight, all I ever wanted to hear was the sound of his breathing, and the feel of his steady heart over my own.
My reverie was interrupted by a shadow against the window.
I opened my eyes to see the man who had been in the apartment, his back pressed against the glass, smoke rising from a cigarette.
The turquoise tattoos magnified against the tinted windows, casting blue shadows like we were two souls laying under the ocean.
Jacob stirred over me, raising his head to gaze outside in wonder.
I am unsure how he felt, but seeing the contours of the exquisitely tattooed back probably reminded him of how close we had come to losing each other to strangers, and in the squeeze of his arms, I felt the warmth of him letting me in, revelling, reasserting and reminding us of our familiarity.
There I lay, cocooned in his warmth, with blue and yellow light bathing us, and the jigsaw was complete.