Over
There was that same feeling below her navel when Elaine woke; she wondered if it was more than just morning sickness. Nerves maybe, she reasoned. She hadn’t slept well the night before. Even though the sun hadn’t risen yet, the skyline between buildings was brightening.
“It’ll be today,” she said to herself as she scrunched her eyes tightly and stretched her arms back.
The clock showed 7:30. Surely Claude was at work already. She hadn’t woken when he left. It made her feel a little guilty. Stumbling out of bed, she steadied herself on a stack of his boxes. That made her feel guilty, too.
It had been better when he’d bring a backpack full of clothes. She could shove everything back in, lock the door, and leave it in the hall when she got tired of him. Everything had changed with the baby, though.
Now he felt the primal need to “take care” of them, although Elaine pointed out many times that he could do that quite easily from his own apartment. She hated arguments, and every time she tried to break it off, there was an argument. So she allowed things to happen. The boxes came into her house like waves rolling into the beach, and she let them, even though she hated them.
He didn’t even know how to make a good pot of coffee. That seemed so basic. How could they ever work? The sun had quivered up over the horizon. It painted the tops of taxies rose gold. Sniffling, she started a pot of coffee, cursing herself for crying again after he’d fallen asleep. It always made her head stuffy the next morning.
When they’d first met, she’d fallen in love with the way he talked. He had an odd combination of Mississippi and New York accents, compliments of his parents’ divorce when he was twelve. There are some things you never lose.
Their conversations used to be heated, and she’d liked that. They were passionate about politics and the environment and the state of the Congo. Things they didn’t know about, but she loved the way they were feed on each other’s ideas. In the heat of those discussions, it felt like they could change the world.
Now, it was all she could do to get him to tell her about how his day had gone. Not that work as an accountant appealed to her. The only good thing about his job was the view. Forty-eight floors up in the North Tower. Sometimes he’d still take pictures to bring back to her. In truth, it was monotonous. Sue supposed that was the way it always was, though, when love got old.
She flipped on the news, half listening to it as she made toast. Two months ago, breakfast would have been a tofu omelet, but her hormones didn’t like the smell of eggs. Maybe it was the Divine’s way of saying that she would have to become an all-out vegan.
Weaving back through the boxes, she mused about how funny it was that the studio apartment felt crowded. Even the side she used as an art studio was full of boxes; these were filled with her things, though, waiting to go to Goodwill.
She missed the backpack. A minimalist by nature, it was impossible for her to work in the clutter he brought with him. Her clients had been patient for the last two weeks, but she doubted that would last much longer.
Her stomach lurched, and she gingerly curled up on the sofa, closing her eyes as she made a silent wish. “Just let it be over soon.”
She’d drifted off into an uncomfortable sleep. She dreamed she was standing waist-deep in strong waves that were threatening to pull her out to sea. Digging her feet into the eroding sand, she’d fought to keep herself upright. A huge wave overshadowed her. A second before it crashed onto her, she was startled awake by a boom. Sitting up, she drew deep lungfuls of air, grateful the nightmare was over.
