When
your boyfriend breaks up with you, the first thing you want to do is go back to
him. Remind him he shouldn’t leave. Throw yourself at him—the almost cooked spaghetti
struggling to remain on a white wall, hoping you would stick. If you survived
the first day after the breakup, then you would live the rest of your life in
denial. Whose fault was it? Now you must understand, that this question is one
that is presented right after the examination of a “relationship” even if the
relationship succeeds, we must find someone to glorify. It was Adam who chased
Eve down in his body and she responded.
So
in the cold waves of January, I asked myself: who’s fault was it? That I had
broken up with one of my boyfriends and was to come home and receive another
call to end the second relationship. I kept both so well. I can never blame
myself for having pink lips and eyelids that are drawn like smooth oval eggs
and eye lashes like the fluffs of goose’s black neck. It wasn’t my fault.
Richard loved me. The kind of love where he’s always apologizing even if you’re
the one who is obviously wrong. We met at the gas station. After I had
intentionally thrown a coke can at his windscreen for overtaking me on the
road. I hate road rage so I was grateful that we weren’t on the street when I
did it. Whose fault was it? Mine. I had started the relationship
unintentionally. Please don’t blabber about fate because she also does not
exist to me. But he responded: “You’re going to pay for that you witch.” I am
not one to be attracted to witchcraft but suddenly, I loved the idea of swimming
through the air with just a broom.
I
say sorry and leave. Giggling when I click my seatbelt out, laughing harder
than the day I found out there were two lumps in my right breast. Stopping
quickly when his white car became a shadowing ghost around me until I reached
my garage. When I get there, I don’t get out of my car. Because I am boiling
with fear and strategizing ways to make life better than what fate has made it.
He comes over and knocks on my windows with his finely shaped nails. I turn on
the radio and listen to the weather forecast. Tomorrow, Friday, it will rain in
New York. I mimic inside the car, someone opening an umbrella and protecting
themselves from stubborn rain. He tries to open the car to no avail. I feel a
strain in my chest and begin to breathe heavily. I open the door to breathe,
when he walks back to his car but shut it back because he might return. I sip
my orange juice resting in the arm of the car door and rest my head back to
sigh. Whose fault is it?
image by Inshira Photos
model:Muhiba
