No one would ever accuse you of being extravagant. You've always been a man who favored simple and easy basics over any amount of flash or dazzle. From the way you live to the way you dress, there's a minimalism that you somehow manage to imbue with personality so it doesn't come off as hermit-like.
Your apartment - the one you keep outside of Garden - is a studio because you like open space. It's populated with the necessities and not much else. A couch, two chairs, a television, a coffee table, three bookshelves, a bed, a nightstand, your saxophone, and a stereo.
The coffee table, bookshelves, and nightstand are all overrun with books and music on a multitude of formats. There's a single wall mounted shelf above the television that you put up yourself the day after you and Jennifer signed the lease. It's only ever held two things - a picture of the two of you and a bottle of bourbon.
You walk by the shelf every day. You look at the picture every day. And every day you realize that you're slowly getting farther and farther away from both of those people. Getting farther from the first person is a natural aspect of time and it's ability to change things. Getting farther from the second person, however, continues to feel like you've been shot in the stomach and no amount of time will help close the hole.
.
.
"Want me to-"
"No. I don't." She doesn't even bother to look at you. She just spits the words out. "I don't want or need any more of your help. Just stay the hell out of my way."
You move off into the kitchen. She doesn't own anything in there so you can watch your life crumble to so much dust without interfering.
You're utterly powerless to stop her, so you do the only thing left: you watch. You stand there leaning on the counter and looking on as she packs up the things you once thought of as 'ours' and are just now realizing that those things are 'hers'.
It's not much. You both had a certain disdain for rampant consumerism and neither of you felt the need to advertise your status by owning more stuff than somebody else. She's picking through the books, leaving most, but taking a random one here and there that you dimly remember her owning before the two of you met. She follows the same procedure with the music. After a bit, she stops and looks around, hands on her hips. It's been all of 30 minutes and you haven't moved or spoken the entire time.
She turns and stares at the picture for what feels like hours. You keep expecting her to say something, but she doesn't. Eventually, she reaches out and picks up the bourbon. You'd swear she deflates a little as she reads the label for probably the thousandth time. Is that the glimmer of a smile you see trying to form on her lips? You're a little surprised when she turns to put the bottle in her bag.
"Put it back." Your voice shatters the oppressing silence.
She looks at you and her eyes are stone, rigid and unflinching. "What?"
"You heard me. Leave the bourbon on the shelf."
"Why should I?"
"'Cause I've done what you asked. I stayed outta your way. I let you take everything you wanted and I kept my mouth shut. But you ain't takin' that."
She softens then, the rigidity easing somewhat. The hardened edge in her voice is tempered when she speaks again. "I just didn't think you'd want any reminders, you know? We we going to-"
"I know." Your voice, by comparison, is fire. White hot and unyielding. "I'll drink it by myself."
.
.
You're lying in the grass with your hat pulled over the top of your face. It's the classic cowboy pose, which obviously suits you. You've worked hard to make sure that anyone who meets you knows exactly what kind of life you lead.
Instead of having both hands behind your head or your arms crossed over your stomach, however, you've got just your right arm behind your head.
Your left arm is raised and slightly bent at the elbow, fingers folded into a loose fist with your index finger pointing skyward.
There's a butterfly resting on that finger. It's been there for a minute or so.
This is how you brag. You put an enormous amount of work into a single moment that any random stranger can completely understand.
You're more than a cowboy, you're a killer.
You can stay perfectly still in almost any position for far longer than a regular person could.
Long enough for a butterfly to assume safety by alighting on your hand and not immediately flying away.
Long enough to look through the scope of a rifle until you find the best angle for a kill shot and then do absolutely nothing until your mark eventually passes through the crosshairs.
It's then you find your voice