In the end, it was the loofa that broke him.
Not her spring jacket still draped on the back of his desk chair in their second bedroom office.
Not the obscene amount of money it was costing him in gas going back and forth to New York every other weekend.
Not even the playful ribbing over the phone when what he needed was a gentle hug, not the missed conversations after work. Not even nine minute voicemails with quiet strangers reminding him that she was in a new place, with new people, with a new life.
What broke him was the 6AM alarm clock, the stumbling to the shower, the leaning on one long arm with his face pressed to the cool tile, water steaming around him, pounding on his back. What broke him was the fading scent of her lingering in this space, heady with reminders, grasping him with delicate fingers. What broke him was the memory of three weeks prior, showering before her inevitable departure to the City, her hands pressed to the glass door as he ran the sudsy loofa over her, her sighs piercing into him as he lingered. He didn’t want her to leave, and it was as if he was a child again, pretending the clock would stop if he just took his time.
But the time came once again, and she slipped from the shower, from his arms, from his vision.
In the end, it was the loofa hanging from a single white string, hooked to a single clear rubber suction cup that attached it to the tiled wall in their shower.
It was his nose finding the sweet scent of Dove body wash, it was his hand finding the plastic-y pink ball in front of him, it was his memories of wondering if her things would ever be intermingled with his in such an intimate place.
He thought himself to be a sap sometimes when he remembered things like that. For all of his quick quips and smooth talking, he was never the ladies man that some observed him to be.
He’d had exactly 5 girlfriends in his life before Pam.
He’d loved all of them.
There’d been no one night stands, despite some very drunk nights – and drunker offers - in college. There’d been very few nights of random bar make-outs (two, to be exact – neither of them something he’d wanted to write home to his friends about).
But then there was her, and she was it, and it was everything.
Even his friends could see that. It was Sunday mornings that he’d missed pick-up basketball games because she was curled up in his arms, in his bed, one of his legs hooked between her silky smooth ones. It was Friday nights that they’d meet up with everyone at Coopers for a few drinks, but after a glass of wine for her and one gin and tonic for him, suddenly their eyes couldn’t stop meeting over the pool table and he was leading her out the door and pressing her against the door of his new sedan, his lips and her lips and sweet whispered words.
It was coming home to their apartment that they’d picked out together. It was going to bed in their bed, opting to get a new one because sometimes memories can linger even longer in a fresh space.
It was pizza on the coffee table and The Princess Bride.
It was two bureaus in the bedroom, pot holders in the kitchen that weren’t navy blue or dark green, or another color that Walmart sells generically for men, it was three shelves in the bathroom closet specifically for her hair products.
It was a picture of him on her side table, in a swirling silver frame, from last summer at the beach, sunglasses perched on a nose pink with sun, hair in complete disarray, sand dotting his chest.
But it was the scent that broke him. A scent that had long lifted off the sheets on their bed, the cover of her pillow, the air that circled around him.
What broke him was the memory of her scent not being there, of that loofa hanging in another bathroom, of a time that she was so close, but so far. It’d felt like a different time zone to him, too.
And when it broke him, he knew.
It was today.
He’d quickly shampooed his hair, packed his overnight bag, set himself in the car. He’d grabbed a coffee, he’d made a sale, he’d gotten weighed.
He got an email with a picture and he’d gotten an idea.
And in the pouring rain, in front of a gas station where his last memory was soaking up a spilled Coke with an old sport jacket that had been tossed in his trunk, he’d gotten her forever.
Later, the next weekend, after 9 days of being engaged and her first weekend home, he’d smoothed the loofa over her again, entrenching the warm, steam filled room with her warmth and fragrance. Her hands pressed once again to the glass door, her ring glittering as the water sluiced over them. He held her hips to him, her back resting against his chest. He closed his eyes, his lips touching her curve of her shoulder, his fingers stroking the smooth expanse of her stomach.
And everything fell back together again.
Story Notes:
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Chapter Notes:
It's been a long day, a long month, a very long year.
Enjoy :)
Chapter End Notes:
Author's Note:
This mainly came from my most recent trip back home, visiting my mother at her new house. My parents recently had a rather... messy divorce, I guess is the best way to put it, and my mom wanted my husband and I to pick up some of my old things. Turns out sometimes things that are left behind should stay left behind - because bringing old memories into a new space isn't necessarily a good thing.
And also because I'm looking to buy a new loofa, and damnit, I can't find another one with the stupid suction cup to hang it up.
So... *awkward pause* Please review and remind me not everyone's parents are disfunctional? Thanks in advance.
And also because I'm looking to buy a new loofa, and damnit, I can't find another one with the stupid suction cup to hang it up.
So... *awkward pause* Please review and remind me not everyone's parents are disfunctional? Thanks in advance.
stjoespirit04 is the author of 25 other stories.
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