There’s nothing more depressing than waking up alone in a king size bed. She left me exactly 1 year ago. I don’t mean that she divorced me. I mean she literally left. Abracadabra. She disappeared. I filed a missing person’s report. I don’t know why. Missing people don’t pack up all their shit and leave. She meticulously packed up all her stuff. I mean everything. The fancy silverware her late mother gave her, her shoes, her dresses, her blow-dryer, her purses, and she didn’t forget to take her birth control pills either.
What pisses me off the most is that she didn’t take a single picture of us two together. The framed photo of us on top of the Eiffel Tower. It’s still in the living room. I was looking through our photo album the day after she left and it really hurt. Not a single missing picture. More than 200 photos of us together. Not one god damn photo is missing. Us in Bermuda. Still there. Us in Rome. Still there too. Us finishing a marathon together. Still fucken there. I really hoped at least that picture would be missing. That was a personal goal of hers. She was a runner since junior-high. Cross-country team, all that shit. She was really, truly into it. I hated it. She made me do it with her. She didn’t force me. But I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the husband of a marathon runner. If she could do it, then I could too. Why the fuck didn’t she take that picture?
What’s really sad is that she didn’t just drop out of my life. She dropped out of all her friends lives too. No phone calls to any of them. No one knows where she might have gone. I have no clue where she went. But I do know she’s safe. Call it lover’s intuition. My theory is she met a salesman. A travelling salesman. At a bar. What have you. They hit it off. They seen each other for only a week. But it was intense. So intense he convinced her to drop her whole life. Pack up all her shit. And just go. Go with him into the unknown. She wasn’t a hard sell. A stay at home woman who wasn’t a mom. I kept telling her we’ll have kids soon. I kept telling her work is too hectic for me. I wanted to make just a little bit more money. Get that big promotion. So I could spend some time with her and the baby. So we could raise the kid together. What a fucken idiot I was. Little piece of advice for everyone. If you love a woman. And you have a chance to have babies. Have the babies. Shit, get in vitro fertilization. Have octuplets. Then she’ll never leave you. She’ll be locked in. And you will be too.
Did I see the signs? Did her friends know? Is she just a cold bitch? All very legitimate questions. I did see the signs. Her friends didn’t know. She wasn’t a cold bitch. Not to me. She was the most loving woman I’ve ever met. That’s why I married her. She volunteered at the soup kitchen a couple times a week. Other than that she was unemployed. I didn’t care about her financial instability. I wanted to be her provider. Let her volunteer here and there. Let her work out and jog with her running club. She was a trophy wife. My trophy wife. If she was half a foot taller she’d have been the highest paid model in the world. She makes Gisele Bundchen look like a Plain Jane. Her eyes could write essays. Sparkling green emeralds. One look from her was worth a 1,000 words. Christina. The love of my life. I had her for six years. I used to read a lot. Now all I do on my spare time is go through our photo album. Looking at pictures of us happily married. Replaying every thing we did on certain vacations together. Going through an all inclusive 7 day vacation with her in my mind. Replaying things she said. Things she did. Teleporting into the picture. It’s impossible for me to move on in my life. All I do is look backwards. Think backwards. Live backwards.
I’m a senior copywriter for a major Advertising agency. I’ve seriously contemplated selling my house. Everything I own. Then using all my assets and credit cards to start a national advertising campaign. The tagline being “Come Back Christina.” She loved reading Women’s Health and Fitness magazines. I’d spend a large chunk of the budget to print full page ads in those. The visual, me on my knees, praying. The headline, “Come Back Christina”. The body copy, “Christina, I have given up everything. Everything I thought I wanted to get this message to you. I don’t care about promotions. I quit my job. I sold the house. I sold my M6 convertible. Everything that I am worth I am spending on this campaign in hopes that this message reaches you. Come back Christina. I love you. Without you. I am just as good as dead.”
I figure all I would need besides the full page ads in the fitness magazines would be one television spot. On CBS during The Young and the Restless. Her favorite show. After that the news would grab hold of my story and give me countless free spots. The day time talk show’s would love it. Here’s a guy who has spent his entire life savings to try and reach his estranged wife. Hell, I might even end up on Howard Stern. He’d have me on. To laugh at my pain. I’d go on because it would be free publicity. Don’t think she ever listened to Howard Stern. But maybe the lover she’s with does. Maybe their on a road trip. Her new lover is listening and driving and she’s dozing off riding shotgun. When suddenly. She awakes. My voice rejuvenates her love for me. She tells her new lover to pull over. Demands that he pull over. She gets out of his filthy, sleek, salesman Cadillac. And she hitchhikes back to me.
I don’t have the balls to lose it all for her. I mean I do. But what if I went through with it. My big nation wide advertising campaign to get her back. She reads the magazines. Sees the full page ad. She laughs and thinks to herself, “You poor pathetic bastard, this is exactly why I left you. You always blow everything out of proportion. I was just about to come back to you. Just about to board a plane back to San Diego. Now I have nothing to come back to. No house. No M6 convertible. No responsible husband with a full-time job and dental benefits. How pathetic.” Fuck her. I love her. But fuck her. I still can’t believe she didn’t take a single picture from our photo album. She’s been gone for a full year. One long, grueling, never-ending year. What if she came back tomorrow and said, “Hey!!!!, sorry honey I really needed a vacation. I was backpacking through Europe. I had to find myself. But I do love you. You were always in my heart. Every step of the way. Blah, Blah, Blah.” I know what I’m going to do. Something I should have done a year ago; the day I came home from work and saw that she packed up all her shit and left. She’s not a missing person. I’m the missing person. Missing her for a full year. Thinking about her. Analyzing our every encounter. How did I offend her? How did I drive her to do what she did? Fuck her. I’m going to take our photo album, burn it in the fireplace, roast myself some marshmallows over the ashes of our memories and drink a bottle of Glenfiddich.
Cheers Christina. Cheers.