Blake was packing his stuff.
He always had few belongings. His clothes - several pairs of jeans, ten tees, some undies, a suit, warm parka and a coat - were mostly bought by me. A stack of discs, a framed poster and a remarkably ugly contrabass-shaped candleholder he got from his course mate, Rita. Books were another story. For now, we boxed part of them and will take them to his place, and later I will send the rest with a courier.
Rita had offered a hand, but Blake had asked her to wait for him at the apartment he had rented. He'd completely fallen out of the habit of spending nights alone. And also, he wanted someone to greet him when he gets home. At least, it will create some illusion that not everything is ruined. Moreover, in the coming days Blake will need a friendly shoulder. Rita's robust black one had long ago become more homelike and staunch than mine.
"If something does not make you happy, ditch it!" Blake adored getting rid of rubbish…ditching items that were not making him happy. That candleholder, stained with wax and nail-polish, was doing the job for him.
I was not anymore.
He went to the bathroom and picked up his razor, toothbrush and shower gel. Except for the books and the coat, all his meager belongings fit into two rucksacks, one dark gray and one black and green, with which he had moved into my place two years ago.
Two seen-it-all reasoners came out of our storeroom after a biennial sabbatical and went onstage again.
"You see," the first rucksack said, "those two never had a future."
"I guess," the other answered, "the second one has no future whatsoever. Just take a look at him."
I understood that in my imagination two old rucksacks were reproaching me. I tried to smirk at it, but could not. All the furniture in the condo was kind of opposed to me. The cups were deeming me a schmuck. The couch would kick my ass if it could. The lamp was ready to yell, "Let's take it outside, shall we!" Dishwasher's thoughts were better left alone.
But I had done nothing wrong. Never cheated, never betrayed, never even fought particularly bad. Considering the fact that, as Emmett can confirm, in an idle moment I can make crystal whoopee and maybe a small, cozy orgy, I had been a total goody-goody. I had just failed. I had fucked everything up again. "What a freak you are!" a telepathic message from the wallpaper was saying.
Blake had asked permission to put on some music, and now my sound system was playing yet another blues tune. I hoped that my ex-boyfriend would take the blues with him, and I would never have to hear it again after he steps outside my door.
I feel like it all started with the blues.
No, if I am really allowing myself to up-end all that with the pretense of being objective, our relationship started to end even before it began. If, at a romance kick-off, a guy gives you some GHB and you immediately slip into a coma, it brings on a lot of intrigue, but does not offer much hope. Blake and I were highly unlikely to live happily ever after. Nevertheless, with the first chord of bass guitar, my brain bypassed my wits to make the following conclusion: You fucking, self-involved moron! You totally missed that moment when your partner practically became a stranger!
I imagined the forthcoming events of the evening. First of mine. So far, I did not want to tell my friends what had happened, not even Emmett. Such confessions are like mirrors placed face to face. You launch the first wave, and it starts to reverberate endlessly. I definitely was not ready for that. I will live through my loss alone somehow, and then order some ad banners at Kinnetic. Rejoice Pittsburgh!! Theodore Schmidt is on the look-out again!
And Blake will probably sprawl on the floor with Rita as soon as he gets to his place. They will listen to those damned blues of theirs. And Rita will certainly sing as well. She sings loudly. Many times on my way home from work, I could hear her powerful scattings from the street. Then they will probably bake a cake. Rita is over 200 pounds already. It is a distant prospect for Blake, although he's gained some weight in the last six months. But that's none of my business.
Truth be told, I must acknowledge that it is good for Blake to have a friend. Certainly, our relationship has gone with the cunt wind with her involvement, but that was inevitable, and it is better this way. Everyone needs to have someone by his side in such a moment.
And certainly, better it be Rita than news that Blake found himself some glamorous peacock and is leaving me for him. Then I would have thought of those two intending to have sex. I would probably have turned on and hated myself for that as well. The thought of having sex with Blake had not really been turning me on for about three months, and a glamorous peacock would have brought so much diversity. I'll hit a club tonight. Not Babylon - I don't want to meet my friends. Some other club. At least I will remind myself what butt-fucking feels like.
***
"Nobody loves me, nobody seems to care," - the blues dude was croaking. I pictured him in my imagination…sixty something, skinny, black, drunk. He'd be sitting at his grand piano and ranting that nobody loves him. And then he’d drop his pants and a hundred chicks would immediately rush to blow him. Blake was singing along quietly and collecting his workbooks. I was being slowly overwhelmed with anger: at Blake, at the stuck-up prick who wrote that song, at Rita, at myself. I bit my lip and stopped feeling anything again.
Blake turned off the player, ejected the disc and put it into his bag. Then he sat on the couch next to me and hugged my shoulders. All day I had been catatonic, watching him collecting his stuff. Not a muscle had twitched in my face for hours. Although – no, I am wrong - I had yawned a couple of times. But as soon as I felt Blake's hand on my back, I burst into tears, sobbing my heart out - the way I last sobbed, perhaps in my childhood. Mind you, that I never can be called particularly restrained. I am fucking sick and tired of all that! Forty years of my shitty life with everything always going ass backwards! Why can’t I just be happy?! It seemed to me I was going to flood the downstairs neighbor’s; that is if they didn't call the police before that. I barely choked the impulse to grab hold of Blake's knees and hang on to him as if to never let him go.
"Come on, you see that it will be better this way," said Blake quietly, when I composed myself a little.
I nodded. It did not make sense to ask him to stay. And not because he would turn me down. I wanted him to leave. I wanted to drive him and his belongings away and never see them again. To end up in honest solitude would be bliss after all those weeks of tense silence, the attempts not to run into each other in my small condo we were sharing, and to not touch each other lying in one bed.
The most absurd thing was the fact that we had had sex that morning. And it had been fine. In the recent months the dreariness of our sex had been redeemed only by its rarity. Until that morning, we had not fucked for about a month. And after we did it, I thought ‘Is it possible that things have started to work out?’ I even planned to buy tickets to Miami again; we had had a great vacation there two summers ago. But as soon as we finished our omelet, Blake said, "Teddy, we need to talk."
And we did.
Having blown my nose and washed my face, I took the boxes and dragged them down to my car. When we drove to his place and unloaded his stuff, I stopped short of kissing Blake as we stood on the doorstep. It was just out of habit, although it's been a while since we kissed on a doorstep.
Rita came out to meet us and greeted me compassionately. And, without looking at Blake, my Blake, my dear, beloved, sweet Blake, who was hesitating and not knowing how to close the door on me, I turned around and went down the stairs.
I was in crippling pain. But the farther from Blake I got, the clearer I felt, not only emptiness, but ease. I was alone at last.