6/2/03

"Wait! Don't go!"

He keeps walking towards the door. I don't know if it's because he is ignoring me or if he just can't hear me over the moderately loud music that was carefully selected for its lack of sentimentality and placed in the CD changer before he arrived.

"HEY!" I yell, not knowing what else to say. It just pops out.

That works. He turns around and walks back over to sit on the edge of the bed with me again.

I bury my face in his collarbone and let loose big, heaving sobs. He holds me and strokes my hair. The pain is real, but it's a contrived moment--I could stop the sobs if I wanted to, but I want to savor the finale for a little bit longer. The zipper of his jacket is cold and scratches my eyelid. The music is still hard and loud, but I've taken off my glasses and everything looks blurry and soft.

Then he does stand up and leave.

The next evening, I put on the more appropriately gooshy "Pet Sounds." And when "Don't Talk" comes on, I sit down and start to write. But I don't cry this time.