Regrets

Woot! We are on “V” folks! There is light! Light at the end of the tunnel! How did I get in this tunnel?!

The chosen song was “Video Games” by Lana Del Ray was suggested by Kate. This is another one where I’ve heard the song but, again, never paid attention to the lyrics so reading them and trying to figure out what it all means was an interesting venture. The story below uses my interpretation.

Regrets

You forget to text or call sometimes to tell me you’re coming over, or maybe you don’t consider it at all, the only clue I have is the two insistent car honks and then your fist rapping on my front door. A six pack is in your left hand. You don’t offer me a can. Instead you pop a top, beer stench sloshes over the sides before you take a sip. You shrug as amber drips onto the carpet. They’ll be all gone in an hour and you’ll walk down to the convenience store for another six-pack or a case, and tomorrow I’ll have to open all the windows to air out the pong, along with your booze-infused odors that will creep into my sofa.

“Hey, babe,” you say, reminding me how much I hate being called “babe” or “baby” or something else proving my adulthood inconsequential.

Your lips drag over my jaw before you saunter into the living room, turn on my TV and gaming system and begin playing. In a few minutes you’ll ask me if I have anything to eat, but this time I won’t hear you.

I return to the bedroom, shut and lock the door, because this is not the time for you to barge in here. As if you would though. Maybe I should wonder why you want to play video games more than have sex, but I don’t care anymore. Apathy breeds apathy, or so you’ve taught me.

I slip on his favorite dress, dot my wrists and neck with his favorite perfume, all the while my hands are shaking.

Your voice mumbles something I can’t discern between the closed door and the rumble of cannons on the TV’s surround sound stereo.

I apply just a little eyeliner, mascara, a hint of color to my lips. And then I stand there looking at my reflection in the mirror, while thinking that I really can’t do this. Can I get in my car to see him? What if he’s moved on? I bite my lip which adds color to my teeth. If he’s moved on, I’ll have to, but not this way, with you invading my house and nothing else. I’d have to find myself again.

In a short time, you’ve littered my kitchen, leaving the mayonnaise, bread, cheese and deli meat strewn over the counter in your wake. A half-cut tomato sits in a puddle of juice like diluted blood. All of this, I’ll deal with later before I lose my nerve.

You don’t notice me leave or hear the engine of my clunker rev. You don’t run to the front door or ping my cell. This is a good decision. You’re not going to be something I regret giving up, not like he was.

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