A man in a stiff black suit holding flowers and cheap chocolates walks into a well-lit dining room with untouched plate ware, chandeliers, and landscape paintings. A dull, empty vase and a cold rack of ribs sit on the table by a sad yet otherworldly beautiful woman. Her red lipstick is stained on a wine glass, with the evidence of an empty champagne by her side. Their eyes meet as he places the bouquet into the vase and the chocolates beside. He walks off down the long, dark hall, and the woman grabs the flowers. A thorn cuts her finger, and she calmly wipes the blood on the pristine white tablecloth. Tears drip down her unmoving face as she grabs the rack of ribs and walks off into the dark kitchen behind her. A single petal falls from one of the roses. The hallway in front of the dining room lights up as the television plays a sultry romantic comedy, drowning the woman’s hysterical crying. The sun rises, and the house is unchanged except for many fallen petals. The woman, in a ...
Five days ago, he called. Said he was lost, that he ‘needed’ me. I’ve heard that one before, I told him, and shut the phone. I regretted it immediately, of course; I loved him, would never stop loving him, but I couldn’t do that to myself again. I couldn’t settle for carelessness when it was all I had known, when it was everything that had damaged me and everything I despised. There were sleepless nights were I had sat repeating to myself that I deserved better, I deserved someone who noticed when I was there and when I wasn’t, what I liked and what I hated, what I wanted and not just what I needed. It's Friday night, and I sit waiting in front of my phone for his call. Deep down, I don’t believe I can do better. What made me any more deserving of love than anyone else? I should take it in any shape, way, or form that it comes because it’s better than nothing. It’s better than sleeping alone. A small, younger part of me doesn’t truly think that. It’s the part of me that doesn’t...