Sorry

The beginnings of a book about bad decisions in a relationship and their consequences.

Sorry.

I arrive to my building at 7:30 PM, having sat in the worst traffic to have hit the city since the riots of 1979. My shirt clings to my back, with the sweat from the summer air's stifling heat gluing the cotton v-neck to my skin. My dress shirt and suit hang around the back of the passenger seat, which has been empty for days. I wipe my face with my handkerchief and lean around the cushioned support to reach the work bag sitting behind it. The leather of the driver's chair refuses to let go of me, and pulls as I rotate around to get a better grip. The seams between the black and red accents leave indentations on my back, but I feel nothing.

The heat of the day looks to have broken, but the humidity of the oncoming night air feels stifling as I exit the car with the clothes I had shed along the drive wrapped around my arm. I set my sights up the sidewalk to the entryway and notice that my apartment building's front door is propped open, with a sign alerting the tenants of a central air conditioning problem: apparently the heat wave fueled an over-reliance on the unit by the residents, with total failure as the consequence. Great-- no comfort, not even at the one place I struggle to call home. The brick building stands before me, and I look away- to the side- to avoid its looming reminder of what awaits inside.

The sidewalk lays empty before me, as if luring me down the road to where the sun is beginning to show a sign of setting on the hill. My mind tells me that I should turn and walk off in its direction-- forget all purpose and connections, and journey off into the distance, never to be seen again. The straight pathway beckons me forward, with promise of a new perspective at the top of the mountain of pavement that sprawls over the city. The promise of a new life, complete with abandonment of all that surrounds me-- a new start, away from everything that I have unwillingly grown to call “my own”.

I open my bag, pull out a cigarette, and fumble for a cheap matchbook from the convenience store. As I strike a match, the glow from the fire erupts, as if to ignite a spark of comprehension regarding reality's limitations. The first drag goes straight to my brain and the smoke of the tobacco suffocates any sign of optimism regarding the concept of walking off into the sunset with my suit jacket strewn over shoulder and a better tomorrow on the horizon. The second drag brings me pummeling down to earth, with the entire sky of dreams and moral bricks following suit. The third only cements my fate as I fall to my doom.

I really shouldn't smoke.

I toss the cigarette aside, unfinished and still burning, and look around to notice that Laura's car is not parked in its usual spot. My mind starts to wonder if she has slipped out to avoid the heat, but the gravity of my actions across the previous two months pulls me into a memory I had tried so hard to drown away over the last three nights. Her two-door hatchback may well have used its favorite spot for the last time, but my mind is not yet ready to handle the concept of her never coming back.

A glimmer of hope crosses through my head as I walk on past the air conditioning sign and continue up the stairs to find a piece of paper pinned to my front door. The glimmer quickly fades away, as I recognize the letter I had left on her dresser the night before with the word “LIAR” nearly carved into the paper with red ballpoint ink. I recognize my handwriting, in blue, underneath, which looks as if the sheet had been submerged in a body of water in an attempt to drown it. The smeared letters cross the page in frenzied fancy, with stains from the attempt on its life running toward the bottom of the page, and collecting in a blue pool that slowly drips onto my entry mat, dying the intricate pattern on its weave.

I identify two words as the primary culprits of the watery mark-- the very two words I have said more than any phrase that any sane person could possibly have uttered in a period of three days:

“I'm sorry,” written at the very end of the page, in a last attempt to let her know how I feel and what I would do to make things right.

Regret pokes its ugly head, but I know better. Emotions won't bring her back, and sentiments concerning what might have been only waste my energy. What has been done is done. Mistake or not, my actions spoke for themselves-- consequences await.

“I'll always love you, Laura.”

I pour myself a whisky on the rocks to cool both my body and brain. I turn on the fan next to my coffee table as I pass by to prop open the windows in a feeble attempt at forcing a breeze inside. The trees across the street rest, unmoving, letting me know that I am out of luck. The only thing filling the apartment tonight will be a haze of uninterrupted self-pity and unrequited thoughts of the best thing in my life that I have managed to let slip away: the end of an era.

The letter that had been pinned to my door sits at the table next to me as I lean back in my armchair and gaze out the window. Her chair sits empty beside mine. I begin to think of what could have been said to make the situation different from my current predicament, but quickly shut my brain off with a long gulp of whisky. Thoughts are not be good to me tonight, so I simply stare at the blurred words on the still-wet page.

She must have stopped by just hours ago to get her things, but she left more behind than she took with her. The contents of the letter look back at me-- a reflection of everything that had been in my heart that I had poured out in my attempt at an explanation. A reflection of her rejection of the very idea that there could be reason behind the madness shines through the state of the paper, and the remaining legible words. Her belongings are gone but her sentiments linger-- I am not alone in my state tonight; not when her hatred burns through me.

Perhaps “sorry” wasn't the right option in my vocabulary, but it was the only one that came to mind at the time. Her retort was, perhaps, more honest. Fitting, then, that of all the words she could have chosen, she decided on “liar”.

Nothing makes sense, and every word ßthat I had known has abandoned its meaning with her departure. I have run in circles since she found out the truth, and I am exhausted in every possible sense of the word. The last memory of her presence fills me, and I pour myself yet another whisky.

I draw the blinds, turn up the fan to its maximum and put on Bob Dylan's “Blood on the Tracks”.

No more thoughts. Not tonight.