Flash

Name: You almost write his surname in place of your own, a knee jerk response. You slap the mosquito that has landed on the back of your neck to feed. Upon assuming his name, you forgot your own. You grapple with the correct spelling. The vowels squish uncertainly inside your head, the consonants bumping awkwardly like soup dumplings. But this should be the least of your concerns. After so long together, your name isn’t the only possession you’ve left behind. Reason for moving: You can make something up here. It will be simpler. A barbecue fire that got out of control, a raccoon infestation, or neighbors who practiced with their heavy metal band. But surely that’s ridiculous. No one listens to heavy metal anymore. You chew the end of the pen even though it’s plastic and you leave mouse-like teeth marks like the others before you. You finally write something blasé, like work commute. You won’t say the truth because who does. You won’t give him the satisfaction. How long do you want to rent the property for: The last time you moved, it was into a home of your own. You felt grown-up and financially intelligent as you signed the mortgage papers. You took photos holding hands in front of the house. Look at her, look at him. So young yet so responsible. What great taste they have. There was a city skyline view from your kitchen window. You bought knitted placemats together. You invited people over for rosé and tartlets on the deck you built. You were proud. And then later just embarrassed. Look at her. She put so much into that house, just to lose it. Do you have any pets: You got a rabbit during lockdown. As a bunny it was adorable, cartoon-like with its gigantic floppy ears. But the bigger it became, the more it bit, tearing the flesh from your fingers every time you proffered carrot sticks. He watched and snickered when you flinched in pain, enjoying the punishment. Well, you wanted a pet, didn’t you. You brought this on yourself. When the rabbit escaped, you crawled in the dirt on your hands and knees for hours, while he only half-heartedly scanned the rose bushes. You always wondered how the rabbit managed to open the cage door all by itself. Do you have any references: You had friends, before. You were even described as ‘friendly’, on one or two occasions. But when you left his circle, few reached out. When former acquaintances bumped into you, they contracted sudden and debilitating prosopagnosia. They immediately forgot about your existence, as though you only existed in a specific storyline of their invention, in a universe where you were not an individual but a couple. Maybe you should have gone to that pottery workshop and made friends of your own. Instead you relied on him for social sustenance. Now look at you, reluctantly providing the number of an elderly neighbor who once called you ‘a nice young lady’. You don’t know if she will remember you, or if she’s even still alive to answer the phone. Do you have any children: He could never comprehend why you didn’t want to bear his offspring.  Come on, now. They would be practically genetic superhumans—with his creative wizardry, his culinary accomplishments, his knife-sharpening skills, his cutting-edge assessment of your flaws. And you…Well, you were strong, built for carrying heavy burdens. Remember that time you pushed the car all the way up the hill? Actually, you can’t remember his exact words. Instead you spent too much time wondering if that was all you truly provided—a sturdy pair of arms and legs, like a well-made table or a shoe cabinet. Have you ever been evicted: You wonder if it counts to be thrown out of your own house. Not physically, he never used his hands. His words were sufficiently sharp enough to peel the skin from your resolve, to fillet the soft and secret parts of your body and turn it into a dish of his choosing; a serving of perfectly seared offal. Your charred innards displayed on a hot plate for all the neighbors to see. You carried your own boxes of possessions to your car because remember, you were strong. You were made for this. At least in the physical sense.  Why should we rent to you: You list all the appetizing traits you think they want to hear: you are clean and tidy, you are quiet. Except the inside of your head feels like a burgled home, littered with the debris of your poor choices. You don’t feel like picking up the broken glass or wiping the puddles of your own blood. You fester in the same pair of pumpkin-patterned pajamas. You eat ice cream wriggling with worms. Nobody pays attention to your outbursts of sorrow and rage, or if they do, they politely turn up the television volume. You try to circle back to what you were like before him. You were a good listener. You were kind. Weren’t you? You had slick ironing skills. You could iron wrinkles out of the wrinkliest clothes. Thanks! We’ll get back to you ASAP! Slowly, eventually, you emerge from within yourself and wash your decrepit body and brush your foul mouth. You put on that dress you loved but hid away, that grasshopper-green one he called unflattering. You eat something extraordinarily carbfull. You finally call your sister back, because someone still gives a shit about you. You start to rediscover who you were once and what you liked doing and new cool things, too, like cutting up the socks you stole from his drawer with giant scissors. Then you pick up the key to your new apartment and your boxes are still heavy but you’re strong, remember? Look at you. You can do hard things, even when it sucks.