I was just trying to clean the house and clear my mind. There’s an empty bowl of hair bleach in my sink that’s buried underneath unwashed dishes from a dinner party we had without you.

On one of our last good days you came over and had a sore throat. I quickly slid into my motherly role and began cutting vegetables for a soup to ease your throat. It helped that I could chop something into little pieces instead of look you in your dreary eyes that told me you’d had several nights of no sleep. You were excited about a writing competition you wanted both of us to enter, you didn’t want to show me how excited you were but I saw it when I finally did look in your eye. You had this prideful look, like you were going to win.

I wasn’t sure if the soup was going to turn out for some reason, I was so worried you weren’t going to like it. You’re such a fucking picky eater. You tell me you hate everything I make and then take second helpings in secret. I should have kept that in mind but I was just focusing on the current moment and the pressure that a good day had on me. I couldn’t fuck it up, I didn’t want to push too far for answers I knew you had but wouldn’t tell.

The soup started boiling. I sat down in my little dining room table, across from you, like a king and queen of trash with better things to do than love each other. I begged you to let me read your tarot, you said you didn’t want to know the future and I said I wanted to know, to keep it in mind. For when I wanted to help, when it wasn’t a good day.

According to the cards he needed to remove himself from the party scene and harness his untapped creative potential. Nothing he didn’t know, he was too smart to be swayed by something like that. Then a high priestess appeared, sensual and yet over worked, full of power and love to give to someone who doesn’t deserve it. Another card appeared that warned him to appreciate the people in his life, to tell him that they’re temporary but invaluable. Another card told him he was the third person in a relationship and was spiteful about it, it said he needed to talk about the feelings he was holding back.

I said, “Are there any relationships you need to evaluate, S? Is there anything that we need to talk about?”

He held up his hand in front of me, “I’m building a brick wall,” he said. “We’re not talking about this anymore, there’s nothing to talk about.”

The soup began to overboil and I ran over to the stove while you swiped the spread away. You have this way of creating so much havoc in my mind that sound slows down and everything in front of me seems untouchable; motion becomes irrelevant. All I feel is burning in my ribs from every marb black I’ve ever smoked with you ever and maybe the feeling of my heart breaking. What was going through my mind was everything you said we didn’t have to talk about when you asked, “Is this frosting?” I couldn’t hear anything until you screamed. I turned around, and you had dipped a spoon into the bleach and put it in your mouth and then you were spitting it all out. “You didn’t answer me, I thought it was frosting!” You were laughing and gagging and I was embarrassed and gave you a bottle of water.

I’m going to tell my roommate that I’ll wash every dish except for that bowl of hair bleach. She’s the one who was dyeing her hair in the first place. I can’t touch the metal or the soggy foam without thinking of his laugh and the wall he built that day that’s gotten higher since.