He Left Me on a Tuesday
*Honorable Mention in the Writer’s Digest 2002 Annual Writing Competition in the Mainstream/Literary Short Story Category.
He Left Me on a Tuesday
He left me on a Tuesday, which was strange, because Monday is his day off. But on Tuesday he came over and packed his things. Methodically. If he is anything, he is methodical.
He opened the door to our apartment and called out my name, but I didn’t answer, and he didn’t expect me to. Then he took out his cell phone and dialed a number; the answering machine on the kitchen counter picked up. Our voices greeted him in unison.
He left a message saying he wouldn’t be back.
I know he called me from the apartment because I watched him do it. He didn’t leave a note and he didn’t say why. But I know why. He didn’t want to leave anything tangible. Nothing I could touch
He took everything of his. The chair we used to sit in together, the doormat, the clock on the mantelpiece. I counted the time by what he took. Tock. He took his pillow from the bed and the blue razors from the bathroom. Mine were pink–so they wouldn’t get mixed up. He took his clothes, which I expected, but he also took his yellow shirt, which I did not. It was his shirt, but I wore it to bed every night. I had hidden it carefully in the linen closet because it was, after all, mostly mine. He found it and took it nonetheless. Everything of his he packed away.
I loved to touch his things when he wasn’t around. It was easier to touch them, than to touch him. His comb through my hair. His blanket wrapped around me. When I touched them I could open up my whole heart. It was different when he was there. I had to shut my eyes, pretend I didn’t see. Pretend I couldn’t feel the places on his skin, rubbed smooth where someone else had touched him.
I have loved him forever. I loved him in his awkward stages before anyone knew he would be beautiful. When his teeth were crooked, and his body was still lanky with youth. I was the only person who saw him then. Me and occasionally someone else; someone older. Someone who saw things because they look closely at everyone. I only looked closely because I loved him.
He hasn’t looked closely at me in a long time.
When I heard the door I knew it was him. Because it was a Tuesday; because he was the only one who had a key to the deadbolt. I took my time crawling under the bed. It’s always a safe place (beneath a bed). Through the eyelet bedskirt I could see him moving about. Taking care of everything in order. I saw his shoes, clean and careful. Black leather shoes. Identical to a pair resting beside me–underneath the bed–half poking out. I hadn’t noticed them before. I could have pulled them in. Hid them. Kept them. Something to hold onto, something to touch.
He went into the kitchen, and began packing up all of his food. One bag of bread, two cans of tuna, all the frozen dinners that had red meat. He took the trash from every bin and bagged it up; trash that belonged to both of us. He went to the refrigerator, took out a jar, and made another call. “Ellen,” he said in hushed tones, as he carefully scooped out half the jar of mayonnaise. I was not surprised there was an Ellen, with him, everything was always in its place. He told her he would meet her in twelve minutes outside her building. Then he clicked the phone shut. And he turned to the door.
And I thought, he’s leaving. And gently, gently, I touched the heels of those black leather shoes and I thought, just let him leave them, this one little thing.
But that was silly. He would never leave those shoes. One breath later he was beside the bed, leaning down, grabbing the toes. I held onto the heels for a moment, and we touched for the last time.
I was the one who told him to go. Only he didn’t know that. Because every idea had to be his. So I waited for my idea to find him. And it did. On a Tuesday. And when I heard that deadbolt I knew. And I wanted it back. I wanted my idea back. It was my idea after all and now I knew it should have just stayed in my head because when he was gone everything would be gone with him. And I wouldn’t have anything of his to touch anymore.
Not after he walked to the door, and picked up the trash. And left.
I lay under the bed until (silent, still) until he closed the door. Then I shot out, burning my legs on the carpet. Scouring the floor with my hands, my eyes, my knees. Looking for any trace of him. I followed the path he’d made. A penny? A scrap of paper? A breadcrumb? Something that had fallen out of his pocket?
But nothing.
It wasn’t until the next day, when I was putting new trash bags in all the bins that I found it. In the bathroom. I guess somehow it had gotten thrown into that container in a rare moment when there was no bag. Surely my fault, he would never make that kind of mistake. But there it was. One blue plastic razor, alone at the bottom of the trashcan.
I turned on the water and I got in the tub and I ran the razor over my legs. Then I shaved my arms, my toes, my belly, my face. Twice. Thrice. Again. It was rusty, a bit, and soon there were little red nicks all over my body. I tried putting toilet paper on the cuts like he used to on his face but the cuts weren’t deep enough, and the paper fell to the ground, used up, a bit bloody. I didn’t care. He was touching me, cutting me, just as he’d always done. I pinched my skin until one of the cuts began to bleed again. And I held the paper until it clotted and stuck in place.
© 2005 Milly Sanders All Rights