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Tess
Day 23 without Alex.
Joan took my phone away. I earned it back when I stopped crying. She forced me to come down from my fourth-floor oasis to fetch it. Daryll leaves baked goods in the dumbwaiter on the third floor. I pick through their fridge every couple of days and restock my mini-fridge in my nest of sadness.
I mostly read, slaughter people on Words with Friends, and time myself doing the New York Times crossword puzzle. I’ve binged shows I should have seen long ago. The Wire really is that good. Sometimes I do nothing but stare.
Joan thinks I’m writing. Can’t. I’ve been in the same underwear and Extended Production t-shirt for two days. I’m not done wallowing. I’ve never had this much downtime in my life. I can see why it’s addictive.
Millions of missed calls. Not Alex. When I landed at Joan’s, she paid someone to tweet for me. He’ll know it’s not me, but the readers won’t. I don’t ever want to tweet again. I bequeathed custody of Twitter to Alex in the breakup. He seems to have given up on Instagram, so our communal social media property seems sorted. Our past will live on our individual pages, just no longer a shared browser history. His page is filled with promos for the pod. Nothing personal, Jerrod must be doing it.
Joan’s weary of my repetitive story. I’m gutted most of the time. I went to urgent care last week because of physical pain in my side, only to discover it’s grief. She’s pissed I won’t forgive myself for evolving. I wish I knew how to not be in love. I keep expecting to fly somewhere to meet him tomorrow, then remind myself we broke up. Then I get to remind myself it’s a good thing. I took care of myself, and it’s time to find someone else who loves me enough. And then I get pissed off he didn’t figure it out. I do this cool little mental dance every fucking morning. It must stop.
Joan bellows up the stairs, “Heya Doll. Running to work. You know the place that pays for the bed you’ve taken to. Remind me to shove your ass back to work. Dinner Westville in Chelsea. Enough melodrama. And shower. I can fucking smell you from here. Do you need an outfit?”
“Not going.”
“Tough shit, peel off those dirty fucking soft pants. Nordstrom’s online. My assistant will pick up your dress.”
“Not going. Don’t want to shop.”
“That’s heresy. Snap-on that phone and pick out a goddamn dress, or I will. And you hate polka dots, right?”
“FINE!”
“Cover up. You have a visitor.” I brush my hair and spray a crap ton of dry shampoo in it.
I yell back at her while I grabbing jeans. “What the hell are you talking about?”
It’s not Joan who yells back.
“I don’t want to see your boobies, despite their reputation for perfection, cover thyself the hell up.” I fly across the room to the top of the staircase in my t-shirt and underwear and see him ascending quickly. “Sweet God! You’re wearing our swag. Put on some damn pants and self-respect. Are you even eating? Do I need to take you to a clinic?” He pulls me close, and just when I thought I was done crying, Mikey found another reserve to tap into.
I blurt out between sobs, “I’m just so sad.”
“I know. Now put on a different shirt. Flattered, you’d want to advertise my business, but you look like shit, and that’s not good for the brand.”
I laugh because it’s a stab at Alex’s mandate of always representing the brand. “I missed you.”
“If you’re going to hide in the future, maybe don’t do it near my parents or on the fourth floor of a brownstone. Fuck, that’s a lot of steps. I was drunk last time I was here. I forgot I’d need a Sherpa.”
I wipe my face off and pile my hair back on my head with his scrunchie, and he squeezes my hand. “I’m not hiding.”
“You are. I’ll only say this, it’s driving him crazy. He’s threatening to go to Philly.”
I smirk. “You can tell him where I am.”
“Fuck him.”
I grin. “Coffee?”
“Now that I’ve done my cardio for the day, doughnuts?”
I put on a mismatching bra and throw on a sweatshirt. I’ll ruin Nike’s brand instead.
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