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Being alone, it can be quite romantic
Like Jacques Cousteau underneath the Atlantic- Andrew Bird
You weren’t used to being alone, and you ached in places you never knew you could ache, but after a while you started to get used to it. The solitude, the quiet, it became kind of nice after years of hearing Roy’s heavy footsteps and the sounds of some sport game or another.
It turned out you kind of liked the quiet.
You liked being able to turn on Nina Simone and paint and knowing that someone wasn’t going to burst in and interrupt you. You liked not having to use ear plugs after years of having to deal with Roy’s snoring, and you liked that when you put leftovers in the refrigerator they were still there when you went to eat them again.
It was odd that all the things you convinced yourself you wouldn’t like about being on your own were all the things that you loved about being on your own.
Three and a half weeks after you moved out of Roy’s, you went to the animal shelter. Roy was allergic to cats and dogs, but you’d always wanted another pet. You intended to get a dog, but there was this cat that didn’t stop staring at you. You suddenly were a believer in love at first sight.
You took her home and you named her Frida Kahlo and she slept every night curled up next to your head and purred right next to your ear. Sometimes you would waste entire Sundays sketching with Frida curled up in your lap.
Sometimes you picked up the phone and your fingers itched to dial, but you didn’t know his new number in Stamford and you weren’t sure what you would say if you did call.
Most of your time was spent in solitude, but it was not as lonely as you thought it would be. It was surprising, but you were actually pretty good at being alone.
Your mother was worried about you, and she called almost every single day at least twice to make sure you were okay. Every time the phone rang you hoped despite yourself that it was Jim calling, but he didn’t know your number either.
You were okay. That was probably what surprised you the most about your break up with Roy, about Jim moving away, you were still okay. You hurt, and sometimes you cried, burying your face into Frida’s fur, but for the most part you were okay. You signed up for classes and you ate leftovers from the wedding every day for lunch and dinner, and you clung to every piece of news or gossip you heard about Stamford, but you were okay.
You like the sounds of Jim. Like falling asleep to his breathing, like the way that he hums when he’s in the kitchen. You like how he fits into your quiet, not loud and demanding like Roy. He slips in, holding Frida on his lap as you paint and he reads, flashing a smile every once in a while your way.
You used to never like when Roy was gone, didn’t know what to do with yourself, kept yourself busy when he was out with Kenny or away hunting for the weekend. But it’s not like that with Jim, you don’t mind when he goes out with Mark, or meets up with his friends for a pick up game.
You’re grateful for that time on your own, grateful that you had the chance to be by yourself, just you and your cat. You know that the art you were doing during that time was kind of dull, fueled by monotonous, unbroken time spent with just Frida. But you wouldn’t give it up, not for anything.
Story Notes:
Okay, so I am of the opinion that Andrew Bird is the bees knees. And I got his song Lull stuck in my head and I could do nothing about it until I wrote something down. So here is my attempt.
bashert is the author of 37 other stories.
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