norhan
average. that's what i am. what i always have been. its a painful realization really. i always dreamt of being something else. of being extraordinary. maybe not beautiful but pretty. maybe not genius but smart. maybe not artistic but thrifty. anything but average.
Everyday is the same now. It's like some one taped one crappy day of my life and now, as if some horrid and dark practical joke is being played on me from the heavens above, the cassette is broken and the day is stuck on repeat. And it keeps happening over, and over, and over.
A loose thread hung limp and useless from the sleeve of her navy suede jacket, the only remainder of the four-eyed copper button that finally gave way and fell off last week after months of desperately clinging on. It made me wonder about her, about us. That button had been loose for so long. I kept telling her to do something about it. "Give it to me and I'll sew it on tighter," I had gently prodded a couple of days after I'd first noticed. "Nah, it's okay. I'll do it," she said in that assuring but, as I've only recently discovered, quite hollow tone that is her nature. Days passed, then weeks. I continued to remind her, softly of course because I didn't want to put too much importance on such a petty matter. No need to seem anal. "It's such a nice jacket sweetie, it really is. It would be a shame to see it get ruined." But, as always, she would press her lips tightly together - a smile - and nod her head vacantly. The truth is, it nagged at me. It occupied my whole conscience, my whole being. It was like that tiny copper disk was taunting me. I could almost hear it snicker. Don't misunderstand, I do not suffer a severe case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I am quite relaxed in fact but this button...ugh...it ate up at my insides. Why wouldn't she take care of it? Why wouldn't she just fix it? She knew it was loose. She knew it was bound to fall off if she didn't do something, anything. She wouldn't even do it just to please me. Maybe it didn't bother her, maybe she didn't care, but could she not at least humor me? I even offered to fix it myself. But, as always, I was gracefully brushed aside. An inconvenience, that's what I am to Grace. That's what I've always been.
I was the one who had bought Grace the navy jacket after seeing the way her eyes lit up when she saw it on display in that fancy outlet store downtown. I remember returning to the store that very day imagining her reaction when I brought home the jacket in one of those boxes with the fancy pink bows. It took me a while to recover from the initial shock of seeing the price tag but I eventually manned up, returned to the store and bought the jacket. I was so proud of myself, I thought I'd really gotten it right this time. When she saw it she cooed and ahhed and pecked me on the cheek. She seemed genuinely pleased, but I could tell that the jacket didn't ring a bell with her. She didn't remember it as the one she'd admired only a week ago when we were shopping. It's okay, I'd thought, she loves it. She does. I really believed it. In fact, I still think she did love it. It's just that, I loved it more. I loved the way it fit snuggly around her petite waist, how it outlined her perfect figure. I loved the way her blonde hair seemed to glow against the dark navy of the jacket. Whenever she wore it I always made sure to wear my best coat and my good shoes, wanting to live up to the beauty she radiated.
I am packing my things now. I want to be gone before she gets home from work. It's too painful to watch the motions of her everyday routine. Always, when she came home, I would be in the living room and, sometimes, I would close my eyes and imagine what she was doing, two rooms over. Right now, I can't help but do the same. She always turned the key slowly, softly, never really in any rush to come inside. The keys would clink delicately as she took them out of the lock and quietly shut the door. She would slide out of her painful work heels, leaving them lying next to the entrance and slowly pad to the closet. She always worked her way to the closet, wiggling her toes, painted Jungle Red or Midnight Blue or maybe Sunshine Yellow, and wincing as her sore feet hit the cold, indifferent tiles. I can imagine her standing in front of our small closet, tucking a golden lock of hair behind her ear then rubbing the nape of her neck like she always did when she was elsewhere. If she was wearing a jacket that day she would slip it off and hang it up, always a little crooked, and then drop her keys into the pocket closest to her. If not, she always slipped her keys into the navy one, the one with the copper buttons. Then, she trudged upstairs, already pealing off her work clothes as she made her way up. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes would pass, before she finally made her way downstairs with her eye glasses in one hand and an unread book in the other. Sometimes, depending on how eager she was to start her novel, she would stop in the kitchen to make a cup of coffee - black, no sugar - before making her way to the living room, where I was, sitting on the couch, with the TV on mute and a prop, usually the paper, in my hand, waiting. She would turn on the light before noticing me. She always seemed startled to see me. "Oh sweetie, I didn't know you were home." Yet I always was.
But not today. Today, when she comes home, all that will be left on the couch are my keys. And in the pocket of the navy jacket they'll be a note and the four-eyed copper button that gave way and fell off last week.