awkwardly wriggled them on under the sheets.
“I’m not interested,” I said finally, my voice icy. I was surprised that I was managing to contain my anger. “I’m not interested in your explanation.”
“But, Claire,” Tom protested. He had tossed back the covers and was reaching for his jeans, which lay crumpled on the floor. “It didn’t mean anything. It’s just that you’re never around, and . . .”
His voice trailed off—silenced, I suspected, by my icy glare.
Bullshit,
every muscle in my face said. Even caught in the act of cheating on me, he was trying to make it sound like it was my fault.
Suddenly, I felt a cold calm settle over me from out of nowhere, and I smiled at him. He shrank back into the sheets, seeming more alarmed by my smile than by my anger.
“I’m going to leave,” I said slowly, calmly. Inside, my stomach churned. I felt like there was an icy fist wrapped around my heart, squeezing as hard as it could. “And when I come back, I want everything that belongs to you gone. Every last shred of your crap.”
“Claire, you’re overreacting,” he squeaked. I realized suddenly, the concern in his eyes wasn’t because he was worried about saving his relationship with me. It was because I was the only woman dumb enough to put a rent-free roof over his head, and he had screwed it up. I was furious at myself for ignoring all the signs. I had wanted so badly to be in a functional relationship, I’d let him use me for almost a year while I blindly believed that he loved me, and was just going through a phase or struggling with his novel.
“
I never want to see you again,
” I said finally, my voice hushed and calm. I had never meant anything more in my life. I took one last look at him: his pathetic, beaten expression, his too-hairy, scrawny chest, his brown eyes that were plain, flat, and emotionless. I hated him. In that instant, I truly hated him. I pushed back the lump in my throat, and without another word, turned on my heel and walked to the front door. I grabbed my shoulder bag, my keys, and the bottle of merlot we were supposed to share. As an afterthought, I grabbed the corkscrew and stuffed it into my bag. I could feel his eyes on my back as I opened the door and slammed it behind me. His stare, which I couldn’t see but could somehow feel, sent a chill up my spine.
I waited until I was outside on the street to start crying.
How to Do a Tequila Shot
I didn’t know where I was going. Tears ran in hot, salty rivers down my face. I was in a fog as my feet carried me north on Second Avenue and west on Eighth to the N/R subway station. It was quiet this time on a Saturday. As I waited alone for a train, I opened the bottle of merlot with the corkscrew I’d grabbed from the kitchen table on my way out. I struggled with the cork without considering the inappropriateness of opening a wine bottle in the subway. Who the hell cared, anyhow? I was by myself. There was no one there to stop me.
I finally got the bottle open with a satisfying “pop,” tilted it back, and took a giant swig, washing the taste of bile out of my mouth. I didn’t bother to take the bottle out of the paper bag, and for a moment I was amused that I must have looked like a well-dressed wino. With a $16.95 bottle of merlot. If there had been anyone there to see me, which there wasn’t.
I sat down on one of the dirty benches and waited. I took another swig, and then a deep breath. I regretted it immediately, choking on the stench of oil and urine that hung heavy in the station.
Note to self:
No more deep breathing in subway stations.
I drowned the smell with another swig from the bottle.
“How could I be so stupid?” I asked myself aloud after I’d taken a few more gulps. I was greeted with silence. I was already feeling the wine. There was no one else in the station, so I voiced my anger a bit more loudly. “How could I be so stupid?!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. This time my question
“I’m not interested,” I said finally, my voice icy. I was surprised that I was managing to contain my anger. “I’m not interested in your explanation.”
“But, Claire,” Tom protested. He had tossed back the covers and was reaching for his jeans, which lay crumpled on the floor. “It didn’t mean anything. It’s just that you’re never around, and . . .”
His voice trailed off—silenced, I suspected, by my icy glare.
Bullshit,
every muscle in my face said. Even caught in the act of cheating on me, he was trying to make it sound like it was my fault.
Suddenly, I felt a cold calm settle over me from out of nowhere, and I smiled at him. He shrank back into the sheets, seeming more alarmed by my smile than by my anger.
“I’m going to leave,” I said slowly, calmly. Inside, my stomach churned. I felt like there was an icy fist wrapped around my heart, squeezing as hard as it could. “And when I come back, I want everything that belongs to you gone. Every last shred of your crap.”
“Claire, you’re overreacting,” he squeaked. I realized suddenly, the concern in his eyes wasn’t because he was worried about saving his relationship with me. It was because I was the only woman dumb enough to put a rent-free roof over his head, and he had screwed it up. I was furious at myself for ignoring all the signs. I had wanted so badly to be in a functional relationship, I’d let him use me for almost a year while I blindly believed that he loved me, and was just going through a phase or struggling with his novel.
“
I never want to see you again,
” I said finally, my voice hushed and calm. I had never meant anything more in my life. I took one last look at him: his pathetic, beaten expression, his too-hairy, scrawny chest, his brown eyes that were plain, flat, and emotionless. I hated him. In that instant, I truly hated him. I pushed back the lump in my throat, and without another word, turned on my heel and walked to the front door. I grabbed my shoulder bag, my keys, and the bottle of merlot we were supposed to share. As an afterthought, I grabbed the corkscrew and stuffed it into my bag. I could feel his eyes on my back as I opened the door and slammed it behind me. His stare, which I couldn’t see but could somehow feel, sent a chill up my spine.
I waited until I was outside on the street to start crying.
How to Do a Tequila Shot
I didn’t know where I was going. Tears ran in hot, salty rivers down my face. I was in a fog as my feet carried me north on Second Avenue and west on Eighth to the N/R subway station. It was quiet this time on a Saturday. As I waited alone for a train, I opened the bottle of merlot with the corkscrew I’d grabbed from the kitchen table on my way out. I struggled with the cork without considering the inappropriateness of opening a wine bottle in the subway. Who the hell cared, anyhow? I was by myself. There was no one there to stop me.
I finally got the bottle open with a satisfying “pop,” tilted it back, and took a giant swig, washing the taste of bile out of my mouth. I didn’t bother to take the bottle out of the paper bag, and for a moment I was amused that I must have looked like a well-dressed wino. With a $16.95 bottle of merlot. If there had been anyone there to see me, which there wasn’t.
I sat down on one of the dirty benches and waited. I took another swig, and then a deep breath. I regretted it immediately, choking on the stench of oil and urine that hung heavy in the station.
Note to self:
No more deep breathing in subway stations.
I drowned the smell with another swig from the bottle.
“How could I be so stupid?” I asked myself aloud after I’d taken a few more gulps. I was greeted with silence. I was already feeling the wine. There was no one else in the station, so I voiced my anger a bit more loudly. “How could I be so stupid?!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. This time my question
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