mandatory retreat

July 30, 2014 Posted by the writer

mandatory retreat

You show up unannounced again, three days after I say I can’t see you anymore and six weeks after we meet. I would have told you not to come. But you caught me off guard, like the day I first saw you.

There are things that I do and things that I have done that you will never know. It’s why you can’t keep coming here. It’s why I never should have agreed to see you twice.

You think things about me that are not true. I order my fourth drink during our third dinner together and you say, “Man, I can’t drink like that, especially not on a weeknight.”

One of the things you do not know is that I was never a drinker. Except you always come near midnight. Before I go to sleep, after I erase another day.

I live in a room of cracked screens with no furniture. You never ask why, you think it’s because I am eccentric. You do not realize how I have been unraveling for nearly 36 months and I want you to stop coming here before you know anything about me at all.

You read my writing but never mention it. I know all the pages you have scrolled. You don’t know who they were for. And he never cared.

And that is how this happened.

The morning of your latest visit, I woke up unrecognizable. Tangled in a pile of blankets on the floor. I sobbed to sleep thirteen hours prior and my eyes swelled to the extent where opening them the next day was a task. A legitimate project. Fellow midtown sidewalk dwellers bashfully acted like they couldn’t tell when I stumbled across the street for cigarettes.

You still don’t know that I smoke.

The last day I will see you, I am two bottles of wine toward sleep when you decide to show up. It’s the center of another manic tornado of evening when I am struggling to leave him in the past and stop thinking about you.

And while this may sound and seem deliberate, it is nothing more than a severely tragic accident. Something that went terribly wrong.

It never should have happened at all.

I wake up having forgotten you showed up, again. Cubes of the night prior immediately pound the inside of my skull as soon as I realize you’re on the mattress beside me. An alarm sounds and I’m sickened and relieved by how quickly you disappear.

Watch how fast I evaporate.


About the writer

gretchen's brain is preoccupied with words.

Comments are closed.

  • RSS Subscribe

  • Who's Online

    3 visitors online now
  • Select Archives

  • Disclaimer

    FollowMeToNYC is a creative processing ground which expresses individual ideas that often change with the tides. Naturally, these ideas do not reflect those of any of my employers, or anyone else you might see me wandering down the street with one day.
  • Popular Topics

Content Protected Using Blog Protector By: PcDrome.