after you left

After you left, I left our half-empty teacups in my room. For a bit. One and a half days – until it killed me to have them out of place any longer.

Back to the kitchen bench the teacups went. Water emptied out (for in this instance they were cups of water, not tea: the pragmatic markings of dry Sunday-morning mouths; the coarse mouths markings of Saturday nights becoming such mornings; and such nights, mornings, implying everything blurred inbetween). Swished through the soapsuds and into the un-shutting cupboard.

I imagine some stranger entering the room might assume the teacups were deliberately placed there. To catch mid-winter drips from the flecked-white ceilings. This is the story they would invent from the left teacups. Dust mote, post-exhale drips into the teal-rimmed china.

But actually, just left distractedly in unconfigured locations. Then left longer for nostalgia’s sake … But not much longer. Just. Barely.

I left the sheets twisted through each other. A heap of linen shoved against the wall. Redundant. For a bit; one and half days … Then, I washed one sheet and re-dressed the other. I didn’t change the pillow cases. I thought about it, but I didn’t. I thought about bringing the red blanket inside from out of my car. But I couldn’t be bothered. Yes, I underestimated how cold it was going to get.

For a few hours I left Thursday lunch's unused serviettes in my bag. Then I threw them out. These don’t have a story, I told myself. You can’t hoard everything.

I went to work and ushered for Awatea. The actors talked about “Gisbourne” and “Auckland”. Sitting alone in the dark, I thought matter-of-factly: These two places Hold Meaning for me now. I imagined going home and feeling Very Alone, so after work I phoned a friend. I went home, washed my face, changed out of my work clothes, ate a piece of toast (white, yours, with tomato and Olivani), sat on my bed briefly, re-did my make-up, re-packed my handbag, re-analysed the situation and realised –

I don’t actually need to be with anyone in this exact moment. Or want to.

(The same feeling as being a-top Mt. Eden, alone. With a take-away dinner after dance class. Alone, by choice. Alone with the city.)

But I went out anyway. Got petrol. Avoided buying coffee. Felt out of place, felt frustrated that nothing operates on the same schedule as me. Regretted not getting coffee. Re-considered the coffee. Found myself unable to buy coffee (or anything for that matter, as the only bar open had closed service – at which point a drink had become a redundant desire anyway) … made myself at home, felt at home, felt like I wanted to be at home, felt good about being with my friend, felt infatuated, felt young and silly (are they the same thing?) … felt selfish, felt sleepy, fell asleep – almost. Declared it was home time, was simultanesouly ushered home by the bar staff, drove dangerously, distractedly, erratically. Felt out of place, felt frustrated that nothing operates on the same schedule as me (including my body which by that point was refusing to keep up) … arrived home, felt simultanesouly out of place (out of order) and content and – much to my surprise – less lonely than anticipated. Heard a knock on the door, answered it. Stood in the doorframe and watched my (remaining) flatmate eat hot chips, briefly. Put myself to bed between one clean sheet and one recycled sheet. Slept.

When I woke up I stepped over the teal-rimmed teacup and marked through my morning routine. Worried passively about how settled I felt. Went to work. Recalled you several too many times, while still feeling reasonably unaffected. Wondered if the weight of your absence would cascade into me later. It didn't.

Went home, walked to other work – Awatea, again. Thought about you, again. Felt like I wanted to stay up all night being productive. Did. Went to sleep at 3.35am. Slept through going to class. Didn’t feel guilty. Woke up to sunshine. Vaccumed your empty room and removed the bed. Used it as a make-shift dance studio. Anticipated going away. Anticipated “dancing”. Anticipated “The Future.” Felt young and not silly. Felt like being productive. Felt like it was nearing Christmas, despite it being July.

And then I left. Not like you left, but I left. Drove down to the coast opposite yours. Well, not exactly opposite, but on the opposite side. Twisted back into twelve months ago. Fifty-four months ago. Christmas Day 2009 (so, that is why Christmas is resurrected in my mid-winter mind). Executing my own version of time-travelling (I don't think I like it). I knew how cold it was going to get so I came prepared. I wore something once yours.

The wooden floors here remind me of my new room. And it’s not a big deal, but all the teacups are much too small for my liking.