“Look on the bright side,” My friends advised me. The glass was half full. I still get to keep all that’s important to me.
I get my privacy, for starters. My phone balance wouldn’t disappear. My tee shirts will remain mine, and mine only, and my messy room would be just as I like it.
But I didn’t want the “bright side.” I got to keep my stuff, but my being felt empty. She had left me pining, and yearning for something stronger than the oxygen that puffed up my hollow insides.
I remained on my couch, in my track pants, reaching for a fifth beer, munching on the fourth burger.
It’s just a phase, people thought. I’d recover, they said, replenish, and then move on. Everyone did that.
But I remained on my couch, in my track pants, —
“Hey, why are you saying the same thing again?”
“It’s a narrative, honey,” I explained to my impatient wife who stared at my manuscript, scratching the side of her chin. “There are no rules.”
She gave me that look. The look she always gave me while she looked in through my eyes, into my soul before blurting out, “Oh, you writers!”