I want to make him bleed.
I want to call his wife, and tell her exactly where her husband has spent his nights.
I want to hurt him. I want to hurt her. I want to tear things apart with my bare hands until I get what I want.
My misery is vicious, so I do not give it the reins.
Instead, I continue to pack his things. The clothing, cologne, shaving kit, books, cell charger, the darts. All neatly folded, and carefully placed in the box. The dartboard placed on top, as there is no more room in the box. The dartboard. The dartboard. The fucking dartboard.
"I saw you across a room, shooting darts, and laughing. I couldn’t hear you, over the noise, but the way you toss your head back, the way your shoulders rise and fall - I had to hear that laugh. I walked across a crowded bar, and introduced myself, because I wanted to hear your laugh. And I did, and I wanted to hear more of it."
My heart seems to break into smaller pieces every time I look at it.
No dramatics, no screaming, no breaking things. There's no point anymore.
The dramatics had all happened earlier. I lay in bed, dimly aware of his breath on my collarbone, when his cellphone began chirping from the table next to me. I groped for it, intent on silencing it. Tilting the screen towards me, wanting to see what ungodly time he'd needed to be awake at...and time stopped. It wasn't an alarm that had woken me up. It was a reminder he had to attend a session with his marriage counselor. He'd mistakenly noted 'am', not 'pm' in the reminder. So, at 4am, a good portion of my world came crashing down around my ears. I scroll through his calendar, and realize he'd been seeing the counselor for at least three months, once a week. Only a small break, when he'd been hospitalized.
I sat bolt upright in bed, shaking. Cooper roused beside me.
"Babe?" he muttered sleepily, one arm snaking around my waist.
I held the phone out to him. He blinked owlishly at the screen, then buried his head against my hip. "Shit."
And I went nuclear. I howled. I screamed. I completely lost my temper, and planted my feet against his back, shoving him from my bed. I snatched his clothing from the floor, and tossed them at him, ordering him out. I stalked to the livingroom, and hurled his keys at him, as he tried to get dressed in the darkness of my front hallway. I screamed and railed. And he was silent the whole time.
He closed the door. I flipped the lock, and crawled back into bed. I stared at the clock, watching as the hours oozed by, until it was time to get up, get dressed, and go to school. Over breakfast, I burst into tears, and stupidly break a plate, unable to see the sink through my sobs. That afternoon, I went to work. First day at the new job, and I'm walking around feeling like I've taken a bayonet to the sternum. And I go home to my empty apartment, my empty bed, my empty life, and stare mutely at the ceiling. There is no sleep.
This morning, I sit and wait for him to come get his things. To give me back my keys. I won't hope for an apology, or an explanation. Things will end the way the started - two strangers, looking at each other over a dartboard.