“I got one hand on this bottle, one foot on the gas/I’m searching for trouble, I’m going too fast/I’m running from shadows, I’m hoping to crash/Just to wake me up from the pain and the past…” 

“I’m gonna have to ask both of you to leave.”

Is the last fight supposed to be the most passionate? She kissed me enthusiastically, either completely too intoxicated or too involved to notice the vertical cut that ran up the left side of my bottom lip. A cut caused by my attempted levity, underlying issues we both refused to address, or our addiction to one another. Who fucking knows at this point? She let her lips linger with either lustful anger or a remorseful finality; I, in my drunkenness, had no desire or capacity to explore either.

“I was making Japanese and she’s watching DVDs/In Oakland, in Oakland/Now I’m driving up the 5, and she waits till I arrive/In Oakland, in Oakland…”

 “I did right by her, right? Doesn’t seem that way. If I did, she would be here, right? She would respond to my texts, right? She would fuckin’ save me…”

Fuck it; maybe I’m irredeemable. Broken to no real repair. And she knows. I leaned on her for so long, it left a scent she needed to shake off, knowing it was no fault of her own. Her smile is different around people that she doesn’t have to heal, which is something I honestly can’t handle anymore. She used to collect the pieces of sanity that would routinely be tossed aside by my insecurity and anger and store them for when the night gave way to contrition. Now she grimaces as they leak from whatever semblance of normality I pretend to have. But how can I blame her?

“Buuuut…yo, yooo..yo. Hey?? Hey?!? Yo! When we’re good we’re good, though, is wha *hic* I’m trynnn..trynsay…”

I couldn’t even fix my eyes on her disappointed face long enough to convince her that I- yet again- would do better. That I do care. That I know I’ve done a terrible job of showing it up until this point. That there’s a lot on my mind. That there’s a lot going on around me: jobs, getting acclimated to them, family pressure, whatever. Of course, I’m the victim, and of course I’m incensed when that’s no longer enough for her to hold on to the dream that the person she thought she loved will ever be anything more than a manipulative, delusional piece of shit posing as a misunderstood esoteric drowning in his own self-pity.

Shit, I could’ve told her I was just as broken as her. But then why would she ever wrap her arm around my bicep and rub her thumb up and down my tattoos, in full lust over the idea that I can confidently pick up her shattered pieces?

Shit, I could’ve told her that I melt when I see her, too. But what leverage and dominion would I then have over her? How can we both maintain that nervous energy? Who wins then? Fluttering hearts blow away in the slightest breezes, and I’ve always been told it was my job to chase them, not to let my own drift away while my hands remained empty.

Doesn’t she see I’m working with this vision? I know the destination; I just don’t know the exact route, and here she is asking out of our journey. Fuck her. Fuck her so much. Fuck her…right? I understand this isn’t what she signed up for, nor is it what I wanted to expose her to. I needed her to believe in me. And to tolerate me, even if I don’t really understand why this would be something anybody would be willing to tolerate. ‘I’m me’ became the only validation I could muster, and the minute that no longer became acceptable currency in our relationship, I lost the only halfway tangible advantage I had. I promised it would’ve been worth the sacrifice…fuck her. That seemed right.

“I don’t wanna hear what I’ve done wrong/I’ll deal with my problems when I get home/I’m better off when I’m all alone/I know I said I’d stop, but I’m not that strong…”

I drove aimlessly down Route 5. I cruised, rightfully hurt. I sped, wrongfully pained. I swerved, increasingly intoxicated. I yelled, uncontrollably indignant. I swerved again, endlessly pondering. I exited, rapping tearfully out of tune. I lingered at stop signs to ponder over the recent past. I ran red lights in defiance of the immediate present. I stopped breathing at the sight of my actual world crashing down; the idea of the novella of a life I convinced myself would reset in the coming work week immediately halting.

There wasn’t a sobriety test; one wasn’t really needed. It was tragically comedic, really. There were no accusations and refutation thereof; just an immediately regretful and scared and broken and lost and compliant kid affected by his own misplaced anger and delusional machinations.

“Shiiit, I…I…did right by hur, right? Don’t sheeem da way. Iffi did, she’d be huh…right? She’d answer, right? Sh…sheeeee…she’d save me, sir.”

“Like a million, million, million people told me not to trust in you…”

Maybe I’m irredeemable. Broken to no real repair, I think. And she’s moved on, I guess. I leaned on her for so long, she got used to smiling demurely whenever someone asked where I was. I liked that. She got used to reflexively handing me her keys, opening the passenger seat door, and plopping down quietly, a small- yet telling- act of submission that empowered my toxicity. She’d grown so used to my glossy-eyed rants, she’d often sit on her patio silent, waiting for me to explain a world she pretended to not understand. One of us needs to be saved, the flickering embers of coherence in my brain thought.

The phone vibrated violently. After an awkward shuffle across a marble tabletop, it rested alongside a bowl of cantaloupe. It rang again, the buzzing becoming louder as it echoed off both the countertop and the bowl. The pulsations were loud enough that anyone in the kitchen would have easily heard them, if someone were actually present. She sat across the living room in a brown loveseat, her legs tucked underneath her sideways. The room itself was silent, save for the soft music that came out of the little pink wireless speaker he had bought her for Valentine’s Day. Jhene, Childish Gambino, K.R.I.T., Tink and others filled the background while she flipped slowly through the pages of a James Patterson novel. Every few minutes, she instinctively blew across the top of her black tea, even though it had long since cooled. This world was simple. It was without conflict or justifications. There were no promises to be made, nor was there available space to entertain them. A room over lay the frenzied summoning of neediness and dependence. A mere 35 feet stood between the stress she so longed to overcome, and a person that was no longer worthy of her effort.

*Zzzzzzz! Zzz-zzz!*

Then peace.

*Zzzzzzz! Zzz-zzz!*

Peace again.

While this flailing attempt at distraction waged one room over, she still sat on that brown loveseat, engrossed by her book and eased by her environment.

*Zzzzzzz! Zzz-zzz!*

*Zzzzzzz! Zzz-zzz!*

 As she neared the end of her chapter, she looked toward the kitchen with a sudden realization. “Damn…I left my cantaloupe in there on the counter.”

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities