This is the Life of a Redhead

Thursday, January 14, 2010



I’m numb.

“I just want you to know, this has nothing to do you with. I just can’t do relationships.”

We were making progress. We were getting better.

“I still care about you a lot.”

I’ve changed my major, I have a new apartment, I was going to start counseling, take anti-depressants.

“I’m not going to eliminate you from my life. I still want to be friends.”

All hollow victories.

I have so many questions. I’m overwhelmed with panic. I can’t control my breathing. Tears are flooding down my cheeks and suddenly my hands are wet. My phone is wet. I speak like a child. Please, please, please. This isn’t fair. Please, please, please.
He keeps going. I’m only processing pieces of it. He’s felt this way for a whileblahblahblahdoesn’twanttohurtmeblahblahblahpleasedon’tblamemyselfblahblahblah…

Is this spur of the moment? We had a fight, but I said I was sorry. He’s just angry. He doesn’t mean it. He couldn’t possibly have planned this out. Do his friends know?

“They said it was an unfortunate situation.”

I wanted to seek out his best friend, grab him by the shoulders, and start shaking him vigorously. Talk you dirty bastard! I’d thrust him against the wall; hear his skull crack. With blood dripping down his temple, I’d push his head into the toilet, ruthlessly screaming while he choked and gurgled. What did he tell you? How long have you known? Talk! and he, wheezing and gasping for air, he’d sputter information: the conversation they had, what he said about me, how he still cared. Is there another woman? He doesn’t know nothin’.

“We can wait until we’re back at school. We can take it slow.”

Yes. Prolong the inevitable until I see him again. It’s been nearly a month. He’ll see me, and he’ll change his mind. He’ll see how much he loves me. I’ll be good, and I won’t pick fights, and he’ll remember how great we are together.

“I’m sorry, we’re just not compatible…”

We have so much fun! We can talk for hours. We like so many of the same things. We can spend days and days together and not get sick of each other. We care about each other. I am comfortable around him, I can tell him anything. I am connected, invested. I am so unbelievably happy! Aren’t you happy?

“. . .”

You said you’d tell me if you weren’t happy.

“. . .”

When did you stop being happy?

“. . .
I’m sorry.”

Please reconsider.

“I’m sorry.”

Please give me another chance.

“I’m sorry.”

Please please please.

“I’m sorry.”

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

New Meixco

It was out in the desert during the winter, on historic route 66, that I learned to fall in love. The four of us were exhausted, and I was curled up in the back seat with my coat thrown over my body like a blanket, my puke-green crochet hat an uncomfortable pillow. We had been driving all day, now trapped somewhere between the twelfth and fifteenth hour, though even a clock couldn’t quite tell me how long it had been, as hours had melted together and the day had been so long that I had no recollection of what time we had left.

There were no lights lining the highway. The occasional headlights from other vehicles signified signs of life, but we were cruising at 85, and I was glad that the company of other drivers only lasted for a mere seconds as we blurred past them.

I was restless, and I could not sleep. I thought it was unusual how bright it was, like the sun was shining in my eyes, but there was no warmth and the car was surrounded by a velvety darkness that sat heavily on my eyelids and tried to coax me to sleep. But I couldn’t sleep. The darkness was half-hearted, the illumination too sincere. I turned my face to the window and pressed my cheek to the cool glass and turned my green eyes to the sky.

O! It was love!

The moon hung in the sky, bright and alert, fondly shining down on desert below. It was so clear, and spread its luminosity with such fervor that not an inch of the sky could escape its intense light. The stars were more than small pinpricks in a deep blue curtain. They were grand, glowing headlights, burning with the same passion of the cheap LCD screens that littered Las Vegas. But they were honest, and twinkled and winked at each other, and twinkled and winked at me, the tiny girl in the car who stared at them with such admiration. I felt my heart breaking because I would not, could not, join them in the vast space so unattainable to us trapped under the clouted atmosphere.

I had an urge to climb into the drivers seat and thrust the wheel to the side, to harshly swerve the car onto the shoulder and scramble out. I wanted to dash out into the desert, to the distant mountains, and lay in the freezing cold staring at the sky, motionless, awestruck, letting the snowflakes cover my body in a thin layer, preparing me for death.

I felt my blood flow richly through my veins. I felt romantic. I thought of my boyfriend back at home, how I wanted to transport him here and make love to him in the desert, in the mountains, under the stars, under the earnest moon. I wanted to press his body to mine and feel his warmth and his irregular heartbeat and synch our fast, hurried breathing together in the endless landscape under the endless sky.

I felt tragic; lonely.

I felt my heart break.