Writing Wednesdays ~ Thinking Alone

This story just came to me one day. I'm not really sure where it came from, but it came to me so I wrote it down. I'm also not sure why it's written from the point of view of a middle aged man even though I'm a college aged girl, oh well. Many people seem to like it, so I thought I would share it with you. 

Enjoy.

On that particular morning I wasn't doing much of anything, just sitting on the dusty tattered couch in our living room sipping my morning coffee. I say our, but in truth it was no longer ours, just mine. Rather ironic, considering I was against the odd looking thing in the first place. It was stark red, made of some expensive, supposedly fine material, which I suspected was no more than dollar store yarn, which was now breaking, fraying and allowing the small bit of polyester stuffing to stick out. It looked and felt like a poorly knit blanket draped over a metal bench, which was quite befitting of my life at that point.

Aside from my wife of twenty-eight years leaving me - supposedly it was over a bachelor party and meeting the thirty year old professor was just a coincidence - I had lost my job two weeks ago to the day. At least my boss was empathetic enough to wait until I no longer needed to provide for two, and even gave me a whole three days to move on from the life changing event before breaking the bad news, in letter form.

Just as well. I hated walking off that elevator every morning, staring off into a floor of cubicles that seemed more like a labyrinth. It made me think. It made me think deeper about life than I ever cared to. Nothing good ever came to those that thought too much about life. They were the ones who contemplated suicide.

Yet here, in this dusty living room that was now only mine, filled with ugly furniture that was now only mine, I thought. I thought about the dust collecting on the coffee table, about the dirt stained linoleum floors that we never did have enough money to replace with carpeting. I thought of how “we” was now “I”, and how I would certainly never be able to afford carpeting now. Then, I realized that I was thinking, and decide to stop. So I stared. Out the window, at the barren pink wall with dust stains outlining the place where the last painting of her grandmother's once hung, at the love seat which mirrored the couch in every way with the exception of a cat scratched seat cushion. At least that furry beast went with her and the painting, and everything else.

She did leave many things though, like space in the closet, and on our - my - dresser, and she left my heart. She didn't take it with her, but I wish she did. I wished she at least cared enough to keep me yearning for her, to make me feel like something was missing, to give me something to try for. Instead she filled her suitcases with clothes, make up, and expensive paintings - she even made room for my pride. But, with a letter placed delicately on what is now my other side of the bed, she left my heart - a little wounded and by nature a bit bloody - so that I would not feel like she was missing. I would just feel alone.