Exercise in lying

It was over. Again. They sat in the car, no music, no light, as she explained the reasons why it couldn’t go on. He felt desperate. Impotent. John would have cried if he wasn’t so tall, but a man his size could never shed tears. “I don’t have any water in me”, he thought, as he left the car without looking back. Shoulders imploding, hands on his pockets, eyes on the sidewalk, an overwhelming sense of misery. It was over. Again.

That same night, legs stretched on the bed with one ankle over the other, the left shoe still on, he thought of her. How much he would miss having her. Sleep came and, for the first time, it was one, uninterrupted, continuous, like a drunkard lying in a park bench. The blackouts can be friendly, wrapped arms that swallow you whole and suspend the world for hours.

When he woke up, she was there. No messages on the cell phone, though. It was early and sunny. John left the house and ran for miles until he reached the river. The wind dried the sweat; there was no water in him, still. He smoked a moist cigarette he kept in his hand, sun burning the face and each arm as he said out loud; “can you save yourself and kill yourself at the same time?”.

He showered with his socks still on. Hot water punching his ear and neck, eyes closed and a new feeling, this time of self-deprecation. A terrible sadness. He then cried for the first time, because he figured it out. There was nothing but indifference in him. He didn’t give a fuck. That’s the day when John found out that all love is imaginary.