I Ain't Missing You At All
by
V. Laike
She thinks about him every day.
She can't help it.
She wakes up, and his side of the bed is empty.
She fixes breakfast, and Ben misses his scrambled eggs.
An unused pickup truck sits in the garage where a black '67 Chevy should be.
A neglected box of tools sits in the truck bed.
A khaki work jacket hangs on a nail. It smells of sawdust and sweat.
She salts the windows. She makes sure the area rug with the devil's trap underneath is in place.
She keeps a jug of holy water under the bed, and a pistol loaded with silver bullets in her nightstand.
She checks the house and locks up at night. She kisses Ben goodnight. She climbs into bed alone, and lays her head on her pillow, next to his, close enough that she can smell him. She doesn't sleep on his pillow; her shampoo might overpower his scent. It's fading as it is.
She thinks about the last time she saw him. He'd been upset, scared. Scared for her, scared for Ben. She remembers how he looked at her with hunger. How he drew close, promising passion, then turned away. How he wouldn't look at either her or Ben before running out of the house.
She wonders where he is. "I'm actually not far. About a night's drive."
Is he being careful? "Careful's my middle name."
Is someone watching out for him? Sam will watch his back.
Is he eating well? Burgers, chili fries, apple pie.
Is he drinking too much? "Just, what? Drink a half a fifth a night, and you're good?"
She thinks about the last time they spoke. How harsh her words had been. How . . . lost . . . he sounded. How alone.
He won't call again. He won't come home. Not without being asked. Because he accepts rejection. He expects it.
"You're white-knuckling it. Like what you are is some bad, awful thing. But you're not."
She thinks about him every day. And she doesn't try to stop the tears that seep into her pillow.