It was a Tuesday afternoon in December. She had just gotten out of work and her phone rang. She looked at her cell and saw that, sure enough, it was him. It always was.
What started as a whirlwind romance in October was quickly turning into a shit storm. Declarations of love and being transparent, peppered with grandiose plans both near and far into the future that never seemed to come to fruition were starting to wear on her. Any free time she had was being spent with him. It was all too much, too fast. The last time they were together he gave her the key to his house. She said she had no use for it. He insisted she take it. He asked for her key in return, as he always seemed to be forgetting things at her place. She was reluctant, but thought, “Well, what could it hurt?”
“Hello.” She answered the phone. Thankfully he had his children that evening so she knew he wouldn’t be asking to see her. She spoke to him plainly. Mentioned her feelings that things were moving too quick. She needed breathing space. She and her roommate had recently begun writing together again, and now they were singing together too. This excited her to no end. She wanted time to devote to her craft. She was feeling especially creative again. Could they just move a little slower? When she hung up the phone, she felt great. He understood where she was coming from. “No worries.” He said.
Her roommate and she had decided to practice that evening at 8pm. She looked at the clock. It was 4pm. She had four hours to herself. Her children were at their father’s for the night. It was cold and she was tired. She decided a hot soak in the tub, a deep conditioning hair treatment, followed by a nap would be the perfect relaxing interlude before practice. She set her alarm, turned off her phone, got under her flannel sheets and quickly fell asleep.
She awoke to the sound of her name being called. The room was dark. She was groggy, confused. Did she sleep past 8pm? Was it her roommate in her bedroom? He had never stepped foot in her bedroom. They were both very respectful of each other’s privacy. She was confused. No. It was her boyfriend, standing in her darkened house, her dark bedroom, over her bed.
“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be home with your kids. Why are you in my house? You’re not supposed to be here.”
He saw the look of horror on her face.
“I’m sorry. The kids wanted to go to their mom’s. I thought we could hang out. I tried calling but your phone went straight to voicemail.” He was spitting out excuses.
“I turned my phone off. I was taking a nap. We had just spoken.” She said this as he was backing his way out of her bedroom. “I’m sorry.” He kept muttering. And he left.
Well, she was awake now and distinctly uncomfortable. She headed downstairs to the kitchen, turning all the lights on as she made her way. All the lights were off. Her car was parked in the garage. For all intents and purposes, it didn’t even look like she was home. And he just came in, crept through her home and up into her bedroom. It sent shivers down her spine.
She received a text then. He wanted to come back and explain. No, please don’t. She responded. Yes, he was turning his car around. She told him in no uncertain terms was he to return to her house now. She found herself staying out of sight of any of the windows of her house. She was thankful her roommate was home. He came upstairs from his basement apartment. She explained what had just occurred; and then a loud knock on her kitchen door. She felt anger then.
She opened the door but did not invite him in, told him to leave. He wanted to explain.
“Please, you need to give me time to digest this.” She said. “You don’t want to hear what I’m thinking right now.”
“Yes. Tell me what you’re thinking.” He answered.
And she did.
“You were unable to reach me by phone and you drove to my house. You didn’t see my car in the driveway. The house was dark. And you thought it was okay to just come on in. You were not invited! You walked through my house. You came up into my bedroom and what? What did you think you were going to find? It’s fucking creepy! Get out of here.”
And he did.
Later that evening, practice commenced on time. They had decided earlier in the week to do a cover song, their first. Her roommate hit the four-track recorder and started strumming his guitar. Her cell phone, on mute, glowed insistently the entire time. She started to sing:
I would die for you. I would die for you.
I’ve been dying just to feel you by my side.
To know that you’re mine.
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