Making Do
But maybe, actually, doing better.
The blaring alarm pierced through your dream of a beach and books; you made a mental note to book a holiday once this shitshow is over. God knows you deserved it.
Reaching for your phone, his name is there again. You sighed, feeling the familiar sense of dread yet the tiniest little butterfly creep into your stomach. You let the butterfly go, allowing the dread to lap around inside your belly like day old vodka. He wants to come over he said, he needs his stuff he said. Funny how jumpers and T-shirts he hadn’t worn in years suddenly became something he needed, but you did want them gone. You had thought about burning them; cathartic, but wasteful. So, a charity bag they were put in, but then all the damn charity shops closed.
You typed: “Come and get them in an hour or don’t bother at all,” kicking the charity bag that had served as a kind of representation of him in your life, lingering around like a bad smell, these last few months. One hour and the only thing you had left of him would be gone. You did not know how to feel, so you grabbed your dressing gown and made your way to the shower.
You turned the shower up to full heat, feeling the water scald your skin. “Too fucking hot,” he’d yell at you whenever you showered together. He’d hog that too, watching as you struggled to get any water for yourself, shivering whilst attempting to be sexy. Another metaphor for the relationship? You read somewhere that body cells replace themselves every seven years. Imagine that — one day you’ll have a body that he has never laid a finger on. You liked that thought so you made yourself like the thought of getting rid of the charity bag. You let the butterfly come back into your belly and flap around whilst you wash away skin cells he had touched and saw them spiral down the plug hole.
Wiping the steam from the mirror you reach for your toothbrush. You looked at his one, standing proudly in the pot, taunting you. Green like his eyes, the eyes that became the cold home that imprisoned your heart. You chucked the toothbrush into the bin and smirked.
He cannot taunt you now.
You had brushed your teeth 23 times since the last kiss, how long did it take to break a habit? Soon his lips would not be a habit for you and your mouth would never, ever taste like him, perhaps one day it would start to taste like someone else. Thrilling. The idea of tasting sweet popcorn after years of only getting salted.
Back upstairs the charity bag is still sitting off-kilter. Forty minutes till it was gone. You felt the sunshine through your window and basked in the glow, allowing the warmth to make your skin tingle, reminding yourself you don’t need his touch to feel. Makeup next. You drew big, black wings from the corners of your eyes precisely because he called you an “emo” whenever you did that. Then, what colour lipstick? Red, definitely red, simply because of the number of times he’d shout at you for “marking him” when he kissed you and found red stains on his lips as he pulled away. The lipstick would serve as a reminder not to cave into his words, so that when you brushed your teeth this evening it would be the 24th time since you last kissed and not the 1st. Do not start the whole process all over again, you implore yourself.
Curly hair came next, because he always preferred it straight, flat, just like you were always supposed to be the quietest in the room. The reason your friends started slipping away one after the other when their bubbly best friend became this flat shadow of herself. Zebra print pants and a red top — red was your favourite and he hated it. You were dressing to do the one thing he told you never to do: stand out. You heard a bang at the door and the dread swilled back in, but not fear. You grabbed the charity bag. A couple of minutes and it would be gone, all of it. Your butterfly flapped away, tingly.
You opened the door to a grinning, proud standing, curly haired boy. A stranger. Not the person you had to get onto tippy toes to kiss or could just about manage to wrap your little arms around to squeeze.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” you said as you handed over the charity bag, like it was all the shitty things he’d ever done, said or made you feel all wrapped up with a big red bow and now it wasn’t yours, it was his.
“This everything?” he asked, judging the weight of it by shuffling it between his two hands. You look at his facial expression: confusion, eyebrows furrowed, tongue stuck out a little. Trying to make his mind up, trying to what, feel? That every jumper was in there. He could never make his mind up.
“Yeah, that’s all of it,” you wanted this to be over. You reach for the door, retreating. No, not retreating but moving away from him, going into the safety of a home you had begun to build without him.
“Wait. Is that it?” He demanded. “For what it’s worth, she didn’t mean anything. I was drunk and she was there, and she made do, she wasn’t you.” An attempt at an apology that just turned into an excuse, funny that. How many of those so-called apologies had you forgiven? Not this time.
“That wasn’t an apology, Adam, it was an excuse. It wasn’t just the cheating; I was unhappy for a long time. You made me flat.” I felt for my curls, almost like they had become part of my armour. “You didn’t let me be me and for about three years the whole relationship was all about you and I’m done. I’m making do, I guess, without you. In fact, I’m actually doing pretty great. But you don’t deserve to know that, you don’t deserve to know anything about my life for another moment, so please leave. ” That felt good. He shrugged. Defeat? He turned to leave, dragging the charity bag behind him. Defeat.
The sun glowed on your face as you closed your eyes and felt the foot on your chest lift itself to walk away. The butterflies overwhelm your stomach, for you and absolutely no one else.
