"It's always been that way, it seems

One love begins, one comes undone"

✦

When Matt found me next I was hunched over in the pantry in search of any alcohol we may have purchased however long ago.

"Bingo!" I sung, finding a sealed bottle of white wine hidden in the far corner.

I could feel his presence heavy and dark watching me, my ring in his hand, contemplating tomorrow and tomorrow's tomorrow. Any second that would proceed that last hour.

I popped up with a new goal of locating a cork screw. He said nothing, simply stared, as I fumbled noisily through drawers as if I hadn't been living here for years. And he was just heavy and dark, heavy and dark and dull. And I behaved as if I hadn't been living here for years.

"Why are you drinking?" He asked quietly, his voice raspy.

Between the time my left ring finger became bare and Matt's dark splotch into the kitchen, there was what I could only estimate to be a five to ten minute period of solitude. A period of time in which Matt had remained in the sunroom and let his vocal chords run raspy.

"To celebrate," I said, still shuffling through kitchen utensils.

I could sense his eyebrows furrowing—his nose twitching. "Celebrate what?" He mumbled.

The end. I shrugged.

He sighed and I could hear the congestion in his throat as a gulp followed.

Was it cruel to be happy? To be relieved? While Matt stood sad over tiles I had painted red and cleaned blue with a tear. Was it cruel? Am I sorry?

This thought had crossed my mind as I struggled to puncture the cork with the old cork screw I finally found. The cork fired off the bottle with a resounding no! I'm not.

I heard Matt's footsteps as he walked to the cupboard and pulled out two wine glasses. We would be drinking for reasons similar yet different but it was the end, so did it really matter?

He curved around the island to meet me as I slid down and leaned my back against it, my legs rested upon the floor. There was a split moment where he paused and looked down at me hard and sad and dark. I felt indifferent.

Because there he was towering over me—a dark grey cloud of smoke and thunder—and I could only watch. I felt more human than I ever had in the simple observance of a storm that hovered miles above me, inevitably due to pass by. There was no need to reach out or to comfort as I could only jump a mere foot and clouds only dissipate within your hands. They disregard density and weight and become invisible if neared too closely. So as he was towering over me, there was something intangible about him. So distant and dark.

Matt then sat beside me, his appearance stern and resigned.

"Are you angry?" I asked him quietly, waiting for him to transition my view of his side profile into his portrait. He didn't.

"No," he said and it came out minuscule as a clipped "o" sound.

"I never forgave my mother. And I let her die before I could. I don't want this to be that like," I admitted.

He pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin down. "Okay."

"You're important to me Matt... You helped me a lot when my mom left. This all doesn't just erase how happy you made me. I think it's probably time for me to be on my own for a first anyways, you know? To make myself happy," I ranted solemnly, my mood beginning to match his own.

"Okay."

I closed my eyes to prevent from crying. Aren't I supposed to be happy? To be relieved? Everything was coming in waves.

I cleared my throat, preparing for him to wince. "And I want you to know I'm not sorry."

"Okay." He remained stoic.

"And I'm telling you that because... I shouldn't be." He should be.

"Okay."

I wondered if he was even listening to me now. His answers were all the same but I knew it wasn't fair to expect anymore. This was the end. And I couldn't be sorry.

"Don't be sorry," he said in a whisper, confirming he listened while staring ahead lifelessly.

Instead of responding I reached for the wine bottle and brought it to my lips, disregarding the glasses. I chugged what would be considered a few shots before bringing it down to my lap, trying to avoid a grimace at the tart, sour taste.

I scooted closer to him so we would be thigh to thigh. Wiggling my right shoulder, I signaled for him to rest his head there and he let it fall.

"It would've been five years," he breathed.

"Seven years altogether pretty soon," I added.

I heard him get choked up as his head shifted slightly. I tried to maintain my own composure at the sound.

He didn't deserve sympathy. Right?

"We're young though." I decided to attempt to distract his thoughts from burying further and further into darkness.

"Not even thirty," I almost laughed. "And look at how much we've accomplished together." Absolute emotional ruin.

"We should've left." His voice cracked and we ignored it.

"Hmm?"

"Here," he sniffled, "where we grew up and tried to make a life as if our parents weren't enough proof of how it would always end in disaster."

A sad smile slipped upon my face. "It was good for a while... almost seven years, right?"

I think he smiled sadly too. He didn't answer, taking the wine bottle from my grasp. Holding the weight of his head now, he chugged a roughly equal amount of wine as I did.

I drank a mouthful more after him before moving my body so I no longer leant my back uncomfortably upon the island cupboard.

Looking up to the ceiling and around the room as much as I could from my unorthodox point of view, I let a smile fully bloom. "We did alright."

I brought my vision back to him and it slightly swayed but I noticed he had finally rested his gaze on me as well. And I still felt human even though he did too. Because it felt like home.

"I love you," he said.

I studied his lips as they curved around the syllables all slow. How his bottom lip drew in as he pronounced love and the way his mouth puckered over the word you almost as if in a kiss.

I wanted to kiss him then. To imprint the blueprint of the words on my lips to eternally remember. I love you. But then again how could I ever truly forget again. It was the end.

Should I return the quiet kiss? I love you.

"Remember when you told me that the first time?" I half grinned in reminisce.

The apples of his cheeks swelled as he returned the favor, hiding by showing the top of his head and ruffled hair. He peaked up through his eyelashes and I thought, I love you.

"Always." He reached for the wine bottle and slung back a chug.

I love you. "It was so random."

"No it wasn't," he denied, eyebrows drawing in. "You were so still. So comforted by the environment and how for a minute in the shade as things bustled around us it felt like it was only the two of us there,

"If we were maybe anywhere else, I don't think it would've felt as safe. And I wanted you to feel safe," he revealed.

I love you. "Matt," I whispered because what else was there to say when neither of us were quite good with our words.

I wasn't sure if the blush on his cheeks was from his revelation or the alcohol but I knew I was just as warm. We had discussed the first moment he told me loved me in that old car wash Lenny's but he'd never given me so much detail into his thought process. I'm not quite sure why he hid it.

"You looked so innocent, so unscathed after everything you'd been through with your mom. Still. Your brain was finally still."

My mind was fuzzy and porous as he spoke and words pranced from his tongue. I concentrated deeply on the way his fingers fiddled in a waltz together, as if each movement had spelt out the letters in the air themselves.

"Almost like how you are now, calm and at ease amongst a time you're like that rarely. I always wonder what you were thinking about then that made you so at peace."

Us. "I'm not sure."

I glanced up to meet his eyes, earnest and curious. Doubtful. Maybe he knew I lied.

"I remember when we pulled into the tracks and I put the car into neutral and you had this big gummy smile. Half your hair was tucked into your hoodie but the other half hung out wildly. There was this one strand hooked on your bottom lip. You didn't even notice,

"But you looked at me one last time and did a little squeal before staring straight through the windshield. Then the light muted and there was nothing but a slight shade and a flash of colors. Your mouth drew close and there was not a single movement besides the slow rise and fall of your chest."

"I love you," I said, almost cutting him off.

His eyes had yet to drift from my face and the corner of his lip twitched gently. "Yeah, that's when I told you."

"You stilled," he continued, "your chest deterred its sequenced fall. And the car wash was over and we were basked right in the light, the tires released from the tracks."

"And you drove," I finished for him, visualizing the exact memory in the gleam of his eyes. Somehow I could see the illusion of colors in his normally rather mute brown display.

He nodded, exiting his hunched position by leaning back onto the cabinet and staring at the ceiling as I did. Except he seemed to be seeing the sky, the sun, and the moon and stars even though the latter hadn't yet cascaded its view in our portion of world. He seemed to be seeing it all. Even what would come after the end.

I crawled over to him as a tear graced his under eyes. Wiping it away with a gentle touch, I filled with remorse as he grasped my wrist. We were a mere few inches apart and I could feel his breath on my lips. It smelt like sweet, tangy peaches.

His eyes were slashed in clustered red roots that grew up and down with no end. It was unclear whether it was the alcohol or his upset, but I did not need to see the damage festering within any other feature to understand the most prevalent consequence of the end. Regret.

Not regret for his infidelity, as that had already surfaced. It was a regret for everything. The beginning, the middle, the end. The first kiss, the first I love you, the first whoopsie daisy, and for every nickname and laugh and intimate moment. For the marriage and joy and love. Because it would inevitably lead up to this.

Before I let him dwell further in his regret, I said, "I have an idea."

"What?"

"Just follow me," I ordered and it came out slightly slurred.

We stood up on shaky knees and I made sure to grab the wine bottle on our way out of the kitchen.

Up the stairs and to our bedroom, our feet noisily pounded against the floor. Once inside, I backed up against the closet door and everything at once lulled to a silence besides our breaths working to catch up with our busied feet. We both drank another swig, which burnt down our throats.

It was almost animalistic the way Matt's eyes caved into mine. Not in a predator to prey manner, but simply intense and familiar like we were the last ones left of our pack and all the other had to rely on was one another to survive. An appreciation stemmed out of fear of the imminent danger of being alone. We were one another's memorability of what it was to be safe and secure. He turned away. Regret.

"A celebration," I repeated from earlier and he didn't bother to ask celebrate what? because this time around he knew.

Twisting the door knob with my arm behind my back, I walked into the room backwards. I spun around when I nearly hit the rack on the farthest wall. On this rack, I slid my hands between the various fabrics, fingering for a specific one.

When I felt the slightly plasticky, scratchy smooth material my hand paused. He couldn't see what I had found as I covered it with my body.

"Close your eyes," I told him, trying to subdue a hiccup and failing. To guarantee my stealth, I spun and grabbed his hands in mine, bringing his to cover his ears, "don't listen."

I wasn't sure what I was hiding as he would see soon but when a small smile tugged at his lips it felt entirely worth it.

Having found the first treasure, now it was on to the second. It was dark in here, so I couldn't go off my vision and my skewed senses from the alcohol definitely didn't help.

After a minute or so of more thumbing around I had the second garment bag in my hand, the first one struggling to stay splayed over my shoulder. The former was much more heavy so I was happy to have found them in the order I had.

Prior to yanking the hanger off the rod, I contemplated if this was a good idea at all. Would it make him more upset? Would it make me upset? The answer would probably turn out to be yes for both but I took the risk anyways. What's the worst that could happen?

Then I had an idea. "Turn around," I ordered. "Actually you know what, can you just like wait outside."

He started backing up with his hands still by his ears so I knew that it had provided zero ammunition against the obnoxious sound of plastic as I had hoped. So this was pointless too. But I tried.

I started chuckling when he backed up straight into the closet door with a grunt. He didn't even try to stifle his own laugh, his eyelids starting to move as he bent over.

"Don't—open—your eyes!" I basically yelled in between breathes, I was laughing so hard.

Whether it was the wine or his own laugh that was making it all so funny, I wasn't sure. And I didn't care either because it was all so human. So simple and careless.

He eventually found his way out the door, closing it gently behind him. I heard him jump and sink onto the bed, the mattress letting out an "oomph" beneath him. He giggled at that too.

With my privacy, I stripped down to my underwear and wrestled with the heavier bag to get it to open. This was a hard enough feat on my own, causing me to sigh at the prospect of the greater struggle waiting for me.

Zipping it open with a harsh tug, the white fabric burnt my eyes like a sudden light flickered on in the room. My brain felt airy and constricted all at once. Like I had gone too far up in the sky and the air pressure tightened around me to where I could only get fleeting breaths to my lungs.

Clenching my jaw, I took a deep breath which released jaggedly back through my nose. You can do it, you can do it, you can do it. The end, the end, the end.

When I took a closer look, it wasn't white or blinding at all. The dress was a dull cream made almost entirely of lace, layered to make it opaque. I had found it at a thrift store for just $11.95. The tag read "1970s Ruffle Wedding Dress."

I remember how the day of the wedding I had all these pinpoint red pricks and minute skin pulls on my fingers because I tried to learn to sew a mere week before the date. I did a half hazard job of stitching up small holes or tears in the lace and removing the very dated mesh, mock neck neckline. Without that fabric it became an off-the-shoulder gown with a breath of vintage air, having transparent billowy sleeves which met tightly at my wrists. It was almost balloon-y but it gave the effect of flying when I wore it and I remember finally feeling free. But maybe not as much as I do now.

I chose the dress because it reminded me of what my Abuelita had worn when she married in the late 60s. She would have given me her's but it didn't fit me properly.

Leaning my face in my hands, I thought about her. Would she be disappointed in me now? That my marriage couldn't even last five years while hers surpassed fifty. I mean, she was convinced Matt was as infatuated with me as I was, neither of us could've predicted this. Right?

Though in reality, I knew she would never be. She would be disappointed in Matt.

Willing away the tears building in my eyes, I tried to shake her memory from my mind. I didn't have my mom but I always had my Abuelita. Mi mariposa, she would say in her Spanglish, it was not culpa tuya. I could even feel her kiss on the top of my head. Te amo mucho. Más que any silly man could, she'd joke.

This time when I looked down at my dress, I almost laughed, my body flushing warm in comfort. How could such a loving woman produce a person like my mom? Oh mi mariposa, no sé.

Gathering my composure as best as I could, I shook the dress from the bag as gracefully as possible. I resisted staring at it longer, half expecting Matt to already have fallen asleep. Clumsily, I threw the dress over my head and shimmied in it, cursing from stepping on the hanger twice in my struggle.

I could only snap two buttons on my back in place, and being an off-the-shoulder dress, unless I hugged the fabric to my chest it fell right down and exposed me. He would have to button me in.

Tip-toeing to the closet door, I built up my courage. What's the worst that could happen?

It creaked open loudly and quietly at the same time. Matt shot up from his back to where he sat on the ledge of the bed. His eyes drew first to my hands clasped tightly around my chest and then fell jaggedly like a collapsing building down to my feet.

There might have been tears, but as he pinched his eyelids close for a split second, I couldn't be sure. He stood up and cleared his throat.

"Are you upset?" I asked. Was this cruel?

He shrugged. Yes.

I almost said I'm sorry. As much pain as his decisions inflicted upon me I found it no grounds to do the same to him. But I also found no grounds to apologize now.

"Can you, um, button it for me?"

He nodded.

If only I could be inside his head now. To understand why he couldn't trust his voice to speak. Would it rattle and shake? Come out harsh and demanding? I couldn't stand to see him so monotone and so emotionless again. How did he feel to see me like this for weeks and weeks? I thought I understood him, but in times of tragedy everything becomes blurry. What is it to love?

I neared him tentatively, turning to give him access to the back. His hands grazed the skin of my waist, cold and chill inducing. The warm, fuzzy feelings from the wine went mute and I knew I couldn't be sober yet, but I was still more aware, attentive to his fingers' touch.

The pads of his fingers drew inwards towards my spine and I resisted the urge to step forward and escape the sharp slice of icicles. My body finally breathed when he separated contact, bringing the sides of the dress together, fumbling buttons into there place.

Having been almost five years, I had outgrown the dress slightly to where it was uncomfortably snug around my rib cage. I wondered if he notice how it didn't fit the same. How it never would.

His finger traced a line over my shoulder blade, and I froze again. Cold. Empty touch. What was he thinking right now?

The silence pooled around us like fog, so thick and tangible I choked on it. His frigidity was infecting the space around us. I shivered, cold seeking in through my cracks attempting to polarize my lukewarm innards.

"Evdoxia Pallas... it doesn't sound right," he exhaled onto my neck, talking about my maiden name. The warmth of his breath stung like an ice cube, water dripping down my spine, dampening and stretching out the buttonholes of the dress.