[Dare You To Move — Switchfoot]
Time doesn't slow down because you are sad, and it cares even less that sad is a completely inadequate way to describe things. Time turns, wheels move on. It is an arrow released, which is something that can never come back. Even if you cross to the target and retrieved the arrow, it isn't a reset. It is merely a point from which to go forward.
There is still red dirt in the bottoms of his dress shoes. They go out with the trash the day he comes home from Georgia. The suit, too. Usually he isn't so wasteful, but there is no use in holding onto it any longer. Sober again and more clear of mind after the silent plane ride with Natasha, it isn't hard to do what he has to do. He has to go on.
The cans and bottles and socks go first. Food that has overstayed its welcome in the fridge follow. Once the stove and the floors and the bathtub are all scrubbed clean, he sits on the edge of the tub and looks at all the bottles and containers and tubes of lipstick. Shampoo and bath salts and the stuff that smells of orange flowers nearly overflow from the few shelves and little wicker basket she puts on the back of the toilet. With a deep breath, he gets up, dumping it all into a garbage sack with a sweep of his arm.
The bedsheets go next. They have little purple flowers on them — that had been a compromise — and he can't stand to look at them any longer. Off they come and into the bag they go. He'll make do without them until he can get something new. Then the pillows because they still smell … all of her clothes have to go, too. He should probably donate them, but he needs them out of the apartment.
The pilsners they got at a pub right after they married shatter against one another when he drops them into yet another bag. The margarita glasses they used at the last fourth of July barbecue after they started dating go next, then the barbecue tongs and scraper. His purple "Kiss the Cook" apron. The tie she had to get him when she accidentally hit him in the nose on the way to a job, to replace the one he bled on. All in the bag.
It's raining when he goes down to the dumpster. It's fitting, in a way, because it was raining that day too and it rains in his dreams. He leans for just a few moments, hands on the edge of the dumpster, the smell of diapers and spoiled lettuce invading his nose. It's more welcomed than the orange blossoms. Pushing off the container, he climbs back up the stairs to his clean — clean of every trace that she's ever been there, and yet somehow the sunshine that was her still permeates.
The sky is red behind the clouds, and the rain is unusually cool for this time of year when he carries his duffel up the front steps. They were supposed to be safe in the summer. The doorman recognizes him and lets him in right away. It's only been a few hours, but the hole feels raw as if it's grown over days.
"Thought you'd show up," Tasha says quietly when she opens the door. She hasn't even changed yet. It's both refreshing and stabs him at the same time.
"I'm hungry, and it's raining." He leans one elbow on the door and gives her his usual smile that feels odd on his face. It's time to smile.
Tasha smiles back. She takes his bag without further comment, walking lightly on her toes and setting it next to the sofa. There's already a sheet and blanket waiting, neatly folded on the arm. "I'll make some tea. The takeout menus are in the drawer." Pointing, she gets the kettle and sets it to boil.
"Thanks, Tasha." He doesn't have to say why. She knows.
"We're not getting the peppered beef," she answers over her shoulder.
He smiles, pulling his cell from his pocket
