Associative Property - the property (which applies both to multiplication and addition) by which numbers can be added or multiplied in any order and still yield the same value, e.g. (a + b) + c = a + (b + c) or (ab)c = a(bc).
He comes home to an empty apartment, grocery bag in one hand, keys dangling from the fingers of the other. He kicks the door shut behind him. The locks are not twisted into place, but he cannot be bothered to care. There are a lot of things he can no longer be bothered with doing or being concerned about. Instead, he continues forward into his home, stopping only to toss his keys into the tiny glass bowl on the end table immediately to the right.
The living room looms in flickering, muted colors wafting from the television. Its volume is dangerously low, bordering on completely silent so as not to bother the neighboring tenants when he is not home to turn it down. Ivan cannot remember the last time he turned the device off. Nor can he remember the last time he so much as glanced in its direction for more than a second. The sealed envelope atop the coffee table is more than often of a reminder that his newly acquired habit is more trouble than it's worth.
But he hates silence, he hates the overwhelming loneliness that comes with a home (meant for two) void of another to fill the place with life. He hates the feeling of overwhelming shame that comes with being alone in places you were usually with another. During his spontaneous evening run to the grocery store, he realized the usual cashier, always especially jovial and just a tad bit too nosy, would no doubt notice an equally pestering blonde missing from his side during his biweekly visits. Thus, he'd chosen to wait, filled with utter humiliation, behind several other customers, rather than one, to avoid being interrogated.
To avoid being reminded. To avoid possibly being prompted into pretending as if he does not mind being alone.
Shuffling sluggishly into the kitchen, Ivan places his grocery bag onto the counter beside the refrigerator, taking notice that the granite is wiped clean. The sink is void of dishes, knives, spoons, cups and plates, all tucked away within their designated cabinets and drawers. It is not as a result of him cleaning, but more so the fact that he has not eaten a single meal within his home for weeks now.
"What am I doing?" he asks himself, wandering back into the living room.
The moment he plops down onto the couch, removing his cellphone from his pocket to toss it onto the coffee table beside the unopened envelope in the process, he is hit with an incoming call. Odd for the time of night.
Unknown Number , the screen flashes as the entire phone vibrates harshly. The pulses sent through the device have it skittering across the tabletop, sliding precariously close to the edge. The sound is loud, echoing through the apartment and masking the mumbling of a man and woman currently engaged in a heated discussion on the television screen. Their steadily rising tempers are made obvious by their contorting facial expressions. It is an oddly familiar sight to watch; the furrowed brows, the aggravated gestures and exasperation to the point of forceful poking and shoving.
For a moment, he sits there, thoroughly transfixed by the image. There are no captions to assist him in deciphering the nearly muted words flying from their flapping lips, but that is no problem. He does not have to know what they are saying to understand because he's been there. Time and time again. Angry and disheartened, plagued with the desire to fix things but unable to show it.
"Next time I'll remember to tell myself that my boyfriend doesn't give a fuck what I think before I say anything."
"You are so dramatic. I am busy."
"There's barely any time for us because you're always all about work, work, work. Relationships take work, too, Ivan."
"Relationships also need understanding."
"Do you even love me anymore? Just tell me. I'm fucking tired of going in circles with you."
"I do. You know that."
"Then fucking act like it!"
The recollection causes him to groan pitifully, throwing his head back to gaze absentmindedly at the ceiling. It always seemed like problem after problem. It still does. Ivan supposes that is why he currently has barely enough energy to cook a homemade meal, a nearly empty second bedroom (though it was used only for storage before), and a heavy heart. A ton of regrets, goes without saying.
A ton of regrets and not a single one keeps him from tapping that little green icon, lips sealed.
"Hello?"
He does not respond to the hopeful inquiry, well aware of who is on the other end of the line.
"Ivan?" asks a familiar voice, breathy and alarmingly unsteady.
It brings back memories. Harsh ones, loving ones, both none too long ago. Nevertheless, he savors the sound as if this will be the last time he hears it. It may very well be.
"I know I told you I would never contact you again and that I didn't want to ever speak to you again… That we were over and all that other stuff..."
Hurry up and get to the point already, Ivan wants to say, but he stays silent, trying hard to identify the muffled sounds in the background. He still worries. His hearing centers on the cackling of rambunctious laughter and incoherent conversation in the background because anything is better than listening to the unforeseen outbreak of whimpering and sniffling directly in his ears.
There is the brief sound of rustling and Ivan imagines the boy pulling the sleeves of his sweater, or jacket, over his hands so that he can swipe the fabric under his runny nose—an unsanitary habit Ivan never bothered to correct.
"I just—I need you. Ple—"
Beep!
He does not want to hear the rest of that statement.
The phone clatters loudly against the table, 03:39 flickering in and out of view. Call ended, the screen flashes accusingly. His fingers flex before clenching into a fist atop his knee. He has to ignore the urge to call back. He hates this feeling of weakness, of pity and sympathy one simple word can bring upon him. Even after he'd promised himself that he would strengthen the walls around his heart, that he would forget any previous affections in favor of growing as cold as he felt when he was left alone. Alas, saying is a lot easier than doing.
Honestly, the entire situation is laughable. Thirty-two is entirely too old to be so heartbroken. Much like thirty-two is entirely too old to be love-stricken by a boy just settling into the last of his teenage years. A lot like thirty-two is entirely too old to allow himself to be helplessly strung around by the same boy.
It would be a useless lie to say that he is not expecting another call to immediately follow. Routines are difficult to dismiss once embedded into one's instincts. As shameful as it is to say, this isn't their first go-round.
So he sits there, almost hopeful, staring at the screen on his phone until it dims and darkens completely. He does not count the minutes that pass, but, true to pattern, the device lights up not too long after, ten familiar digits on display.
This time, he answers by the time the phone delves into its second round of buzzing. And again, the other is rambling before Ivan can say anything in greeting. Not that he plans to.
"Please. Don't hang up. I didn't know who else to call."
Lies and poorly constructed excuses. Ivan has been spoon-fed enough of them to know. Regardless, he cannot bring himself to hang up again. Two calls are the maximum and that is never exceeded. Instead, he stays on the line, does not utter a single word, waiting for an explanation. He is always hopeful that something will give, that something will change.
But it is all routine.
"I feel sick."
That statement is truthful. It is made clear in the way it is muttered, seemingly not at all addressing Ivan. It sounds like more of a fleeting thought than an intentional opening for conversation.
With a heaving sigh, Ivan's resolve finally crumbles because he still cares. "What do you want, Alfred?"
There is a brief pause before Alfred answers in a quiet whisper, "You."
Despite his inability to be certain of whether that statement is true or false, Ivan wants to believe. He wants so badly to believe that Alfred is not luring him in.
"Do not move. Text me where you are. I am coming to get you."
"You d-"
That is the second time Ivan ends the call before Alfred can finish a sentence. In retrospect, that is his way of leveling control. Alfred has a way with words, he knows how to persuade and rephrase to tug at Ivan's heartstrings in all situations. The only thing Ivan has is the fact that, on the phone, he does not have to listen. Ivan has the ability to choose whether or not he wishes to answer, whether or not Alfred's words have enough value to be heard.
Unfortunately, that feeling of power is only momentary because the next thing he knows he is shimmying his way back into his coat, preparing to go back out into the night to retrieve Alfred. All after a few sentences. Almost as if Alfred had not called it quits just weeks ago and left him in a pit of overwhelming loneliness and heartbreak.
When he reaches the door, Ivan's eyes are drawn to the picture frame on the end table when he grabs his keys. He reaches out for it, grasps it in overly gentle hands, and stares. The photograph is of him and Alfred, both wearing smiles wide enough to hurt one's jaws. Alfred stands behind him, blue eyes glittering, arms thrown around his neck as he leans forward over his shoulder, the strands of Ivan's hair tickling the skin of his cheek. He remembers that day well (and the day he said he would finally get rid of it). Those were the better days of their relationship. Then, it was all downhill from there.
Yet, time and time again, they came together to try once more, no matter how far into the slumps they slipped. All in pursuit of what they had before.
"Don't get your hopes up," he whispers to himself before flipping the frame onto its face to hide those haunting smiles. Then, he leaves to start the cycle anew.
What can he say? He's somewhat of a dreamer.