Although only a queen-sized bed, the distance between us felt like miles. A million miles separated us in the six inches of air actually there. I’d been waking up to a stranger for quite some time.
For years my heart held on to the memories of who we were, what we once stood for, and how our dreams used to dictate every single adventure we embarked on together. Those days had been over. We’d forgotten all of the good.
By no means had I grown to hate him; but I no longer loved him. I no longer lusted after his chestnut eyes. My skin was no longer hungry for his touch. His presence numbed my soul. My presence affected him similarly, which had become wonderfully satisfying.
He hadn’t touched me in six months. The cocktail of internet pornography and conference calls was his drug of choice. Although I found it disturbing, it allowed us to keep a rather healthy distance from each other. He hadn’t had physical contact with anyone else as far as I knew. Neither had I. I lacked desire. The well was dry.
“Becks?” He whispered with his shirtless back turned to me under our dirty flannel sheets.
The hair on the back of his head was thinner than I had remembered and his skin lacked color. The tone of his whisper must have heightened my senses, because every freckle on his back seemed to be under a spotlight.
I groaned in reply.
With a deep sigh, Dave rolled over to face me. His once solid black beard was now ridden with silver streaks and his eyes were empty and cold.
“Please sign the papers, Rebecca.” Emotionless, he rolled back over.
He hadn’t called me by my full first name in years. He couldn’t have been serious. Both of us knew deep down that signing the papers wouldn’t be beneficial. It would only validate our despair.
A chuckle was all that could escape me.
“Remember last Christmas, Dave?” I asked knowing his answer. How could either of us forget last Christmas? That was supposed to be our last dance together. After a three-day binge of whiskey and cocaine, we had impulsively decided to shower, get dressed in our Sunday’s Best, and go sit in a closed garage in the front seats of our running Honda Civic, with our iPod playlist on shuffle until we drifted away. If Dave hadn’t passed out while showering, I’m sure that Christmas would have been our last.
I rolled out of bed and stood by its side. Dave was snoring again.
A grin swooped across my face as I sashayed into the kitchen and pulled two clean glasses out of a recently ran dishwasher. One tall. One short. Opening the fridge was a little more disappointing. Its content was only the previous night’s Chinese takeout, a half-full month-old expired milk carton, and a gallon of Tropicana Orange Juice. Although I cared for orange juice as much as I cared for my morning nicotine withdrawals as I often realized I was out of cigarettes, neither the milk nor tap water seemed fitting.
From my tattered robe pocket, I pulled it out. My heart began to race as I poured every drop of this medicine bottle’s content into the taller of the two glasses. Dave and I were both going to get the solace that we’d been searching for.
In what seemed like slow motion, I crept into the bedroom.
I nudged him with the taller glass of the special cocktail. “Dave. Juice.”
He was no idiot. He knew.
Our eyes locked as we both chugged down the antidote to our poisonous lives.
I crawled back under the sheets. As he pulled me close, upon his chest was where I placed my head. I could hear it. His heart racing, pounding, screaming for redemption, suddenly stopped. For the last time his chest rose and fell and all was well.
