Intersections

I hate going this way. I avoid it any chance I get, but the construction blocked all the other roads and the detours took me to this intersection. An intersection I know too damn well. And no matter how much time passes, whenever I find myself at this intersection, I always think I could go right and head home - but turning left would take… take me back to your apartment.

Back to your second story studio apartment on Wicker Road. Back to that old, red brick building with those yellow, wallpapered hallways and rickety stairs. You and I used to stumble going up those stairs, drunk, giggly, trying to be quiet. We always failed, especially when we crashed into those side tables in the hallway. We swore they jumped out at us. Mr. Warner would come out and scold us for, “causing a ruckus” at 3am. We would just laugh and apologize. He’d shake his head at us before going back inside his apartment. When he’d finally shut his door, we’d fall to the floor laughing even harder.

Back to those hungover mornings. I can still feel the cold bathroom tile on my face when I wake up. I can still feel you holding my hair when I throw up in the toilet. I can still feel your hand rubbing circles in my back. You’d eventually help me up and lay me down in your sofa bed. Sometimes you would carry me, no matter how gross I was. We would spend the rest of the day laying down together, drinking Gatorade and eating the damn burnt toast you would make. You were a horrible cook. I always let you know that. But I always ate it. You always reminded me of that, too.

Back to those movie marathons. You’re the only person I knew that still had a DVD player and a collection of DVDs. You could’ve run a video store out of your apartment. I can still smell the popcorn you managed to always burn.

Back to those flowers you used to get me. A dozen orange roses. You hated those roses. You said orange was an ugly color, especially for flowers. But I loved them, so you always got them for me. I would put them in a vase and display them in front of the window for the whole world to see. You would joke that the neighborhood snickered and called us, “the weird orange flower people” and that’s why no one talked to us. I would tell you they were just jealous. You would laugh that low rumbling laugh I loved and we’d hug and kiss. You would put on music and we’d slow dance around your apartment until we got tired. I rarely got tired, not when I was pressed up against your cologne scented, white T-shirts. Your smell and the feel of your arms tightening around me while we swayed around and around…I could’ve stayed there forever.

Back to those rainy nights, when I would lay in your arms watching the storm through the windows. I can still hear you whispering in my ear. I can still hear how raspy and low your voice got when you were tired. You told me everything we were going to do in our future. You told me about the wedding we would have, the house, children, everything. You said we would have everything. You told me all the dreams you had for us before you fell asleep. Then I would drift off smiling to the sounds of your soft snoring, as if it was my own personal lullaby.

If I turned left right now, it would take me back to your apartment. But it wouldn’t take me back to those memories. It wouldn’t take me back to you. Not the person I loved. It would take me to the person you became. The person who sold all those DVDs. Even if you only got a quarter, you sold it. You sold the sofa bed and the microwave, too. You stopped buying the orange roses. The dancing stopped and our dreams became a nightmare when you became an addict.

I begged you to quit, begged you to get clean. I said I would help you. But you would get angry and say you were fine. Then, like a light switch, you would start crying. You would say you’d get better, after one more hit. One more time, then you’d get sober. I paid for your rehab, but you never stayed long enough. You claimed you didn’t need it. Three times I tried to get you to stay in rehab, but it never worked. You bailed on it every time. You started disappearing for hours. Then started disappearing for days. I spent the days and nights alone and worried sick. I found you passed out under a bridge once. I thought you were dead. You went from being the person I trusted most, to someone I couldn’t believe a word of. You were someone who loved, someone who dreamed and laughed…to someone dazed, angry, and sad. I didn’t recognize you. I was scared for you. I was scared of you.

Then came the day I believed you loved being high more than you loved me. I had to make a choice, because you wouldn’t change. You refused to get better. I tried everything, but you resisted me. You resisted everyone. I had to make a choice, to let you go or die with you. I loved you, love you still. But being in that shell of a life we used to have in that apartment was destroying me. And watching you destroy yourself was too much. I was tired of crying and begging you, tired of living that way. So I walked out the door. I can still hear you begging for me to stay. But I left and it felt like dying, because it felt like I was betraying you. Even though you betrayed me first.

I hate this intersection.

The guilt of leaving you still eats at me even though it was the right decision, even though it was a long time ago.

Even if I turned left, there’s no way you still live there. The landlord was threatening to kick you out those last few weeks I was there. The apartment building probably isn’t even there anymore. It’s probably torn down.

Cars are honking at me now. Right or left. A painful memory or go home. Home. Nothing has felt like home in a long time. I haven’t felt home since you were sober, since I listened to your sleepy whispers and felt your arms around me.

All the other times I’ve found myself at this intersection I’ve turned right. But today, for some reason...

I turn left.

Against my better judgement, I turn left.

As I go down Wickery Road, I see that faded, red brick apartment building come into view on the left. It’s not torn down like I thought. It’s still there. When I reach the building, I pull my car to the side of the road and look up at the window of your apartment.

Sitting in the window, for the whole world to see, were a dozen orange roses.