Beads of sweat form upon my brow the moment I step out of the blazing sun, into the darkness of the apartment. Building J, Apartment 16. Remember? Our apartment. The one we shared before you ran? No matter. I wouldn't be surprised to hear you deny it. For denying our history would be safe-- and you like safe. 

It has to be at least eighty-five degrees in here. I feel as though I might suffocate, as though my tar-encrusted lungs might implode, as I inhale the thick, stale air. I head down the hall and take a look at the thermostat, just out of curiosity. Ninety-three degrees, with shades drawn. 

Perhaps I should have taken the time to open the windows and air out the place once in awhile. I guess I just haven't had the energy. It's been so much easier to merely slip the rent check through the office's mail slot after business hours on the last day of the month. 

Although you claimed your furniture nearly three months ago, and I, mine, shortly thereafter, the fragments remain. Subtle though brutal reminders. They would haunt me if I weren't so numb. But, then again, you know I would never admit it even if I were to feel the tug, the ache, the piercing somewhere deep within. 

You are gone now. Safe. With a two-and-a-half carat promise upon your finger. And, here I am, returning to the scene in a half-hearted though determined effort to sanitize and dispose of the fragments. The sensation of shards of memory cutting through my flesh has become familiar, almost comforting, now. Indeed, the blood dries and the wounds somehow always heal, leaving not a trace. Or so I tell myself.

I light a cigarette and sit with an ashtray upon the dingy, camel-hued carpet. Just a moment to breathe before attempting to erase the past and handing over the keys.

Perhaps it's because the day-to-day resided within the sauce-splattered walls that I choose to begin with what was once our small yet cozy kitchen. I would lie to you and say that I can still smell the warm sweetness of your cakes, your pastry, your skin; but, the stench emanating from the cups and glasses of half-imbibed coffee, V8 and margaritas in the double-basin makes such a sentiment absurd.

I would wipe your lipstick from the rims, wash each piece with care and place them neatly within a sturdy cardboard box, but you know me better than that. Rather, I unfold and flick open the large Hefty drawstring trash bag hidden beneath the drainpipe and relish in the crack and ping as the glass and ceramic shatter upon contact, one after the other.

It looks as though the coffee rings and puddles of BerryBlue Jell-O have sat far too long. I spray the countertop generously and wonder how much the stains will lighten.

They don't fade at all.

Upon my return from the dumpster, I realize how little there is to address in the living room. I merely vacuum strands of your golden mane and the ashes left from cigarettes lazily smoked after playtime on the futon. The same futon upon which I attempt to find some sense of peace alone in my newly-acquired studio/cave at Jackson and Central. Even in the wee hours, I lay restless. On my back. My side. Left. Right. I turn onto my stomach and imagine you there beneath me. I can still smell you in the fabric.

The bedroom is empty except for the brittle body of a long-dead, winged creature lying tragically upon the floor and your chic ebony beret peeking over the closet shelf. There was once a time when you wouldn't dare appear at a café or an opening at the galleries without it. But that was before you began to assimilate into my world, though one of the queens at the Carousel keeps asking me if she can borrow it for the spring revue. 

I find it amusing that the last time I saw you, donning what I assume is now requisite attire, you meandered into the bookshop around the corner (slumming, are we?) in a precious little-pink-sweater-set complete with a string of pearls around your neck. I can't help but to wonder how many times you've rubbed them across your teeth. 

Come to think of it, where are your Doc Martens now, Mrs. Pretty Pumps? The dance of your nimble fingers double-knotting the laces remains burned into my memory. A couple of months into our relationship, you even passed on the street: my precious little baby-dyke trying her best to fit in. 

So, Doll, what did you do with your Janie Short CDs, your tattered copy of Rubyfruit Jungle and subscription to Philogyny? You put so much effort into your education. It's such a shame that you would be willing to trade it all for NPR, a mint-condition copy of The Rules and a lifetime membership to the Hearthkeepers. I guess we all have our priorities.

Oh, and yes, I forgot to mention: you received a notice from Martha. If you renew now, you won't even miss a single issue. 

The bathroom just doesn't feel the same without your bottles of nail polish -- pardon me, nail "lacquer" -- lined up with precision upon the shelf. Or your lavender scrubbie. Your Lubriderm for Sensitive Skin. 

It troubles me to inform you, as I put the scrub brush to the clawfoot, that your bar of handmade Jazzberry glycerin soap which you so delicately handled during your morning showers has disintegrated into dried mush, caked thick upon the ivory. 

Yet, then again, you so enjoyed soaking in the baths I drew for you each evening. How I loved watching you shed your clothes as you prepared to step into the tub. Your beautiful breasts, your abdomen, the curve of your hip, your legs like silk to the touch. There were never enough bubbles for you, were there? So, I would add an extra dollop or two until the foam reached your chin. Once assured of your satisfaction, I would kiss your eyelids and leave you to enjoy the sensation of the water's tender caress.

The floor is sticky with your hair spray, dotted with the fine powder of your cosmetics which always offered you that oh-so-natural appearance. I can't help but to wonder if anything about you was real at all.

Before long, the tile releases the fresh scent of a mountain breeze. As I make a final sweep with the tattered rag against the molding, a thin, raised tack wedges itself deeply into the nail bed of my index finger. I extract it with a quick tug and the blood begins to ooze. There is something virtually euphoric about the pain. For once, I know precisely where it resides. I don't have to ponder its origins as I so often do at night as my chest tightens and my stomach churns. Yet, within moments, the numbness returns and all I have left is a persistent yet comforting buzz resonating within my torn flesh. 

Wiping the moisture from my brow, I sit back onto my heels and am surprised to experience a surge, a gush of wetness between my legs. You've got to be kidding me. No memory, no thought of you, is capable of getting me hot after all this time…. But, then again, there is that image… of you on all fours… the Kikkoman bottle… I can almost hear you moan. 

I lean against the door frame and stretch out my legs before me. Suddenly, I'm drained. I realize my efforts have done little to erase you -- us -- from this place. Rather, the harder I try to remove the traces, the more defined and enduring they become.

Exhausted, I lower my head to my hands as a tear rolls down my cheek. I watch from a distance as it falls upon the bare skin of my right thigh and notice a trickle of crimson emerging from the stain now visible through the heavy fabric of my cut-offs.

If I could, if you were here, I would trace lovely patterns upon you with my blood. I would bring my wounded finger to your lips and beg you to suck. I would offer you my fertile cunt and you would drink. 

But, you are gone and I am empty. Bleeding from the inside out. 

I tear at my clothes with rage and lie face-down, bare-skinned upon the floor. Again, I imagine you beneath me. My hips undulate with fury. I reach out as though I might be able to find your hands and intertwine my fingers within yours. But there is nothing. You are not there. My fists bruise as I pound… and pound… and pound upon the tile. I'm certain my pubic bone will shatter under the impact.

Enveloped within the imminent freight-train rush-roar of tunnel vision, I cry out with ragelosslovepassionfuryneedwant as I come.

Spent, I lay my face in an ocean of my own tears.

Moments become hours become days become a lifetime. I have no idea how much time has passed, but no longer does the sunlight draw patterns through the blinds.

I force myself to rise and dress without emotion. The glistening crimson hue of my blood has dried dark upon my belly and my thighs: superficial scars I cannot bear to wash away.

I make my way slowly through the hall to the front door and place my hand upon the knob. Paralyzed, I remain still for a long moment, yet refuse to look back - to acknowledge the traces that will forever remain.

I will lie to myself, denying that which I vow to keep buried within the deep recesses of my memory. I will tell myself I never loved you. Will force myself to forget your touch, your smile, my desire, my need for you.

Stepping out into the night, I close the door tightly and feel the click of the lock resonate throughout my body to the core of my soul. It would haunt me if I weren't so numb. Yet, the click of the lock… continues to resonate…. It resonates…. And, all I allow myself…. All I hear… is the click of the lock… and it resonates….

All I remember is the click of the lock. 

Copyright © 2002 Cassandra Snow. All Rights Reserved. May not be re-printed in any form without express written consent of the author. Do not copy or post.