Disembodied

Margo

I saw my mother from across the coffee shop and ran into her arms.

"Margo, honey," she assured, "it's okay." I felt a tear slip down my cheek and attempted to swallow, but my dry throat prevented me from doing so. I looked into her eyes and she used her thumb to wipe away a tear. She asked if I wanted to go on a walk, but I denied. I didn't want to ruin our Saturday ritual. I ordered my green tea and sat down on the cushioned loveseat, while I made sure to leave room for my mom.

"I miss him."

"Of course you do, honey. It has not even been a week since you saw him last."

"No, mom. Missing him is an understatement. I feel empty without him. He was a challenge, a mystery. He was my determination to make everything right."

"He didn't treat you right, Margo. You can't argue with me on that."

"That could've changed."

"Would you have had the patience?" she asked.

I looked into her soft eyes, "You know how patient I am."

"You're young. You'll find someone. Hang out with more of your friends, flirt with more guys. You have options. Staying in your apartment by yourself should not be one of them. You could even stay with your dad and I a few days."

"My problem is I don't want anyone else. I want him." I wanted his smoky breath and his rough fingers intertwined in mine. I wanted his slightly chapped lips on my breast after we drank a glass of wine. I wanted to tug on his long brown hair and to whisper in his ear that I love him. I wanted to feel the pain of his drunk comments he would make and to scream at him for saying those things to me. I wanted to know that he had power over me, but I could take control of our relationship before he took things too far. I wanted everything about him. I wanted to make him black coffee in my lacy underwear and I wanted to wear his oversized t-shirt that went down to my knees. I wanted to make him breakfast and take pictures upon pictures of his beautiful face when his stubble was coming in.

She drank her latte and we sat in silence. "Have you talked to him?"

"No."

"Why?"

"What would make him talk to me? He wanted nothing to do with me."

"It would only make sense that he misses you."

"He doesn't miss me."

"I highly doubt that." We finished our cups and our pastries. We hugged goodbye. She told me to call him and I told her that I might.

     I walked to my apartment building down the street. I turned on my record player to listen to Vance Joy's 'dream your life away.' I tidied up the kitchen and sat down on my couch. I picked up"The Storyteller," by Jodi Picoult, with intentions of being distracted. I couldn't focus on the words because I was focused on my phone's lock screen, waiting to see his name pop-up, but was let down with every notification.

Before I knew it, it was nine at night. I started the bath and undressed slowly. Then dipped my toe in the water before submerging my body into the tub. The water was warm against my skin and I stayed there with my eyes closed until my fingers and toes were wrinkly.

    After I bathed, I glanced at my phone. There were no new messages or calls. It was vexatious to realize that he didn't care enough to make any effort to ask how I've been. I went to the contacts app and scrolled down to his name. Westley. I tapped on it. I stared at my screen contemplating for a few moments, whether I press call or begin to move on.