"Hey, there, stranger." I greet Xavier when he walks in on me putting the last touches on the setting for two. "Everything's ready."
I rush him to the raised bar area that divides the kitchen from the living room.
"This is the second time I've made this 'Risotto al Funghi'." Xavier shakes his head: he told me he hates it when I speak French or Italian he can't understand. "It means 'Mushroom Risotto'. The first batch on Saturday was good too. But this is better. I didn't burn anything, everything is still warm, and it even smells and tastes great." This is another one of Ben's recipe suggestions from the blog: right up my alley price-wise and not too hard to execute.
Xavier climbs up on the bar stool in front of his plate. Is he going to like it? Does it show enough of an effort to patch things up between us?
He put his elbows on the grey Formica but instead of digging in he takes a deep breath. This is not what I was hoping for.
"We need to talk," he says.
The fork freezes in my hand. I swallow the first bite I've already put into my mouth and croak, "Sure. What would you like to talk about?"
"I'm breaking up with you."
The thumping of my heart echoes in my ears, and 'what-the-fuck' burns at the tip of my tongue. My mind goes blank. I need to say something, anything: a question, a joke, some kind of a polite adult reply. Yet, I remain mute.
"When we started dating, it was so intense and physical," he goes on. "Now it all feels wrong to me. When I look at you, I don't see the girl I met at the bar. I'm not even sure why we've stayed together this long. We've nothing in common. I don't even find you desirable anymore." He buries his face in his hands.
My skin prickles with invisible needles. How long has he been feeling this way? Our sex life that started with fireworks is, as of late, less frequent, less passionate, and less elaborate, but Xavier knows how much my circumstances have changed. How little time, money, and energy I have. My boyfriend, or at this point, my ex-boyfriend, gets up, looks at me, and breaks the silence.
"I brought your things." He points to a bag by the couch. "I'll come by to get my stuff later, when you're not around, and leave the keys with the super. We're done, free to see other people and do what we like. A clean cut."
If he's waiting for a reply, I can't muster one. After another long pause, he sighs, turns around, and leaves the apartment.
I sit at the table, fork in mid-air, lips quivering, brain attempting to come to terms with what happened.
I put the fork down.
I take a paper napkin, blot my eyes, and blow my nose.
I clear the table.
I put the uneaten food away.
I scrape the plates clean.
I unload the dishwasher.
I fill it back up with dirty dishes.
The routine requires no conscious thought. I stand in my tiny kitchen, the signs of my happy cooking erased as if they were never there—such an illusion. Everything is an illusion.
My feelings kick in: anger, humiliation, and shame. I'm ashamed of the irrational desire to get him back, to make him change his mind, to hear him tell me he's made a mistake. Humiliation fills me. I've ignored the signs of change in him. This shouldn't have been a surprise blow. More than anything, I'm angry at his power to make me feel so unwanted and unworthy of love.
I'm furious with him but also with myself. The illusion of a self-assured woman is shattered, poisonous vines of self-doubt spread into every corner of my soul. I hear his voice in my head: breaking up with you, not desirable, breaking up with you, not desirable, breaking up with you, not desirable.
And that's the last straw. The floodgates open, and tears stream down my cheeks, unbidden and unwelcome. This is not me. This pathetic, messy woman cannot be me. I may complain to Angie about my exhaustion, my doubts, and my responsibilities but never my feelings. The raw emotions I for years have been so skilled at controlling are taking charge. A palm to my mouth, I try to physically keep any sounds from escaping, as if shoving them back will render me calm again. I fail. The pain and tears blind me, and I feel my way along the wall of the hallway and into my bedroom.
I fall onto the bed, face down into my pillow, when the first wail breaks free. Not a graceful crier, nothing like the pretty actors with tear-filled eyes, yet clear skin, I'm loud, grotesque, and delirious. I'm sobbing, drooling, hiccupping, and fluids you wouldn't expect to come out of someone's face cover my pillowcase.
The alarm blasts at six-thirty and my head is pounding. It must've been past two in the morning when I cried myself to sleep. The light hurts the puffy slits my eyes turned into, and I feel broken. I don't want to go to class, work, or even crawl out of bed. I don't want to do anything requiring me to show my face to the outside world. All I want is to stay home, take a sick day, and wallow in my misery.
That, however, isn't an option.
I need to get going. I turn the deadbolt, ready to slam the finicky door shut, when the sun reflects off the hallway mirror. I avoided peeking at my face in the bathroom this morning. I shouldn't look. It can't be good. I point my foot toward the threshold but at the very last second, I sidestep and glance at my reflection. The bloodshot eyes and sullen blotchy skin ruin my symmetrical features and lay bare the pain that's taken residence inside. How can this be me?