Closing the door


Cutting off my nose to spite my face is an old habit. It’s a knee jerk, over-the-top reaction to the idea that someone is going to hurt me. Better to sever it myself than let someone else do it. I need my nose though. At some point, I have to stop hurting myself just to beat someone else to the punch.

This morning as I drove to work, I tried not to think about Drew. I was determined to shut that door, which really, is only still open because I have been standing in the way, periodically peering into a dark room that used to be lit by mutual curiosity. He left awhile ago.

But trying not to think about it conjured him, and a brick-colored Toyota FJ Cruiser cut right in front of me on the bridge. Ironic. I spent the rest of my commute following it, because I had no choice in the sluggish, bumper-to-bumper traffic. The car was not his, and it was not a sign, just a coincidence, one of a thousand others like it on the road. The moment was not infused with significance, and I was not any more in touch with the universe than the poor woman driving that vehicle, who endured the heat of my stare on the back of her neck for miles.

I have been making a concerted effort to pull myself out of the doorway, closing communication channels one by one. Creating a wall between reality and longing. Resigning before he does. It’s as if now, I sit nearby on a swing, half heartedly rocking with one toe on the ground, eying the door, estimating it’s weight. Working up the courage, waiting for the right moment to hop down and slam it shut, locking it up. Knowing part of me will be locked up with it.

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