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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Story of what happens when you move out.

Submitted: August 07, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 07, 2012




In the summer after we’d first tried to live together, you decided it had been enough. We hadn’t really been seeing anyone else, but we’d been looking, and we both knew it as we lay down in that small bed together. I don’t know if it was the apartment or the lack of light in the bathroom, but we both weren’t that upset about it. I think other people’s negative and positive reactions were more informative than our own. We still got along fine, it was just something…we couldn’t grasp it. When you stopped trying, I tried harder and harder until I ran out of gas, I guess. You were my tank station, you know? Once you stopped giving, I had to run on what I had left, tapped into the reserve, you know?

It was okay. I think you appreciated me still trying, but you just didn’t care. You know there’s a difference between respecting and caring. I guess I got the two confused, but now I know.

And maybe it was the drinking. Maybe it was the way I’d take short-cuts, you know, not sweep under the couch or always floss, or even brush. I guess it doesn’t matter what it was, because it’s not like we’re going to fix it now. And I still hate flossing, it makes my gums bleed. It’s just dust in the wind I guess, like that stupid song that everyone hates because it’s overly true. So I figured I’d just write this stuff down now that this place is empty.

Moving is one of the most depressing things. It shows nakedness and insecurity. What is all this shit? Why do we need to have it? Like the damn posters, you know? Why can’t the walls be enough? They were probably pretty expensive to install or something. We’re only satisfied in the middle, I guess. When we were completely moved in, for those couple of hours after we both organized the place for the first time, that’s when I thought it would work.

It’s become clearer now that the furniture is gone what a dump this place is. We mask everything, you know? It’s like putting makeup on an apartment to make it look more appealing. Like the girl I’m with now.

There’s hardly anything left of you anymore. In a way, we never existed. All that is left of us is bits of hair and fingernails (I know you hated it when I bit my nails, but it was a habit when I was alone, waiting for you to get off work). Then with your hair, there’s all this fucking lint. Dust bunnies, you know? What the hell are they? I guess that doesn’t matter either, it’s just kind of killing me for no reason that all I have left of the last three years is composed of dust. All we are is lint, but I can’t stop loving it. 

© Copyright 2018 Zack Shelton. All rights reserved.

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