Nefarious Muse

“You’re sure?” he asks.
“I’m sure,” she replies as she stuffs clothes into the suitcase on the bed.
It has wheels on it, and he always hated them.
“Guess it won’t do no good to say ‘I love you’?”
“No.”
“I changed my life for you. Changed who I was. Wasn’t enough, though, was
it?”
“No, it wasn’t,” she signs. She looks up at his dark hair, his tired green
eyes. He catches her glance and looks away. He grabs his old jacket, the
one she always wanted him to throw away, from the closet. It’s been years
since he’s worn it, but as he slips it on, it’s a day. She watches him, his
fluid movements and the odd emotion behind his eyes, one she’s never seen
there.
“I want your shit out of here by week’s end. And once it’s all gone, leave
the key on the counter.”
“There’s no reason to be mean. I really want us to stay friends.”
“No, you don’t. And I mean it, by week’s end.” He opens the drawer on the
bedside table, gets his silver money clip and pocket knife. Both gifts from
his father, may his soul rest in peace.
“Where’re you going?”
“The fuck’s it matter?”
“I said I was sorry, okay.”
“I know, and I accept that.”
“I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
“No, you won’t.” And he’s out the bedroom door, in the living room when he
yells, “And lock the door behind you.”
She stands there for a moment and considers tears, sobs, but goes back to
packing her clothes.

Been two years since he’s had a smoke. Quit that for her. Also quit the
drinking. He wants both a drink and a smoke, and wants them bad. He saw it
coming, from a long ways, but as he sat in his cubicle he thought he could
stall it off, that she was worth all the changes.
She’s gone, and she always did remind him of his mother.
He slams the car door shut and bursts through the gas station doors like a
Shah. Eyes the guy behind the counter, thin, young, bored, and heads for
the beer. Two years since a drink and he’s mighty thirsty. No Guinness, of
course, but there’ll be time for that later. He thinks of a boilermaker and
almost salivates. Grabs a six of the cheapest and heads to the front, and
asks the kid politely for his brand. Pays for both and pockets a lighter.
He drinks two as he drives, jazz on the radio, Monk, and smokes half the
pack in quick succession and when he realizes he hasn’t been thinking of
her, he can’t help but laugh.
“Changed my life for her,” he says aloud. He already knows he won’t be
showing up for work again.
He almost hits a coyote crossing the road, but swerves and hits the gravel,
almost fishtails, but corrects and opens another can with his teeth.
He’s glad she didn’t ask for the house. It’s in his name, and anyway, he
grew up there. She could have asked, though, and he loves that she didn’t.
The house his dad owned. He considered showing her, once, the wall behind
the china cabinet in the dinning room they never used. The faded red stain.
His father.
He kills the beer and tosses the can out the window, reaching for another.
Doesn’t know quite where he’s going, who to talk to, if he wants to talk.
Just keeps on driving. Almost hits another coyote, instead waves to his
friend as he passes.

Chris Deal can be reached at: senorcaco AT hotmail.com