The Kitchen Floor
Our love was intense, passionate, quick, unexpected and fierce. Perhaps that why I let him down, perhaps that’s why he won’t talk to me today. We started dating 5 months ago after meeting on an online dating site. We would stay up late and talk about our dreams, our future, and would spend hours and hours on end talking about everything and anything, drinking wine, and staring at each other, just staring and looking at each other and without even making a sound saying “You are everything, everything I have ever wanted and more”. He would hang on to my every word about insignificant logistics of my life, and would lean in intently holding my hand in his. I always knew that every word, every time, meant the world to him because it was me. Everything about me mattered to him, he absolutely adored me. He laughed his best laughs with me and he came up with his best ideas with me and he dreamed about his best dreams with me. I made him better, I made him smile his best and biggest smiles, all the time, I made him blissfully, genuinely, uncontrollably happy. When I was with him, the future did not scare me, nothing did, we had each other and together we could conquer anything and that was all I needed to know, and that was all he needed to know.
The night he left…
I’ve never felt so defeated, so small, so insignificant as the night he glared right through me with an icy
stare so cold it sent chills down my spine. “We’re done, get out” he demanded in a soft yet piercing voice. “Don’t you love me?” I begged like a desperate and terrified child. “If course I love you, but we’re done, now get out”. I felt numb and completely immobilized, I wanted to scream, I wanted to steal him, and I wanted to keep him.
Don’t cry, don’t cry. Stop begging I pleaded to myself, while I sat there in front of him with big teary, hopeless eyes. “Get out” he said again, more angry this time. His voice actually hurt, it was painful and shocking and I hated it, I hated it and I wanted to shake it off and I wanted it to be a nightmare. “I’ll do anything to make you happy” I whimpered like a beaten farm dog. And I meant it, I would have done anything at that moment, and I would do anything today to make him smile the way I used to. He glared back again, looking pale, angry, empty. I could do nothing but beg and cry and when that avenue was exhausted I had no choice but to pick up the tiniest little bit of pride I had left and walk away. I looked back at him barley able to tolerate his face. And that was it.
I walked away, stumbling, out of breath, every part of my body spontaneously cramping, like every one of my muscles felt what my heart felt. Immediate fear and loneliness took over my body and mind. It beat down on my spirit, my dreams like a monster with a vengeance. When I got back into my house, I collapsed on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, grasping for something, grasping so hard I cut my hand with my fingernail. Nothing could fill the void and nothing at that moment could bring him back.
I sat there on the hardwood kitchen floors, consumed with the many memories that had taken place right here. The spontaneous making out while making supper that we ended up burning, and the taking care of him when he woke up sick in the middle of the night, panicking, then the holding his sick face in my hands with the assurance that nothing, nothing would happen to him as long as I was there. The running and jumping to the door when he would come over after work and the throwing my whole body on him like a floppy and carefree child. The pushing him and screaming and the pacing back and forth during an argument. The long hugs for no reason other than that it was the best part of my day and his day and there never needed to be any words to know that. The standing in that kitchen the first day I moved into this house, while he came up behind me and wrapped his strong tanned arms around me, nuzzled his head into my neck and whispered “I’m so proud of you”. It all took place right here in this spot that I am now sitting in.
That was the last night that I ever saw him and one that I never quite recovered from.
Louise, 26 year old writer and philanthropist.