This is Valentine's Day. Or 4 am during the night that follows it. Right now, I should be upstairs, wrapped in his arms and cradled against his chest.
But I'm not.
I'm on a bench across the street from our apartment. A suitcase rests beside me on the ground. I'm waiting for a cab that still hasn't come. I'd call again, but I don't really want to go.
It's raining. I'm still wearing the dress I bought for tonight, for our night out. The night we never even made it to before we started fighting. And fighting. And fighting.
I don't even feel the rain now.
It's Valentine's Day. It wasn't supposed to end this way.
A light flicks on in our bedroom and I can see his form wander from our room to the kitchen. I can't see him now but I imagine him opening the refrigerator, pouring himself a drink, and padding back to our bed. He stops in the living room and glances out the window.
I don't think he sees me.
The door to our building opens and he jogs across the street in pajamas and slippers. I don't stand up.
"What are you doing out here?" he asks me.
"No one came," I answer simply.
He shifts from one foot to the other, uncomfortable. "Do you want me to call again?"
I shake my head. "No. No, I'm fine here."
"You're soaking wet," he begins to argue with me.
But I just shake my head again. "It doesn't matter."
"You're crazy," he mutters.
I just shrug and look at the ground with a frown. "I know. I'm sorry."
He pulls me to my feet and wipes the water away from my lips with the pad of his thumb. "Don't be," he whispers. "I love your crazy."
And he kisses me.
And he picks up my suitcase. And he picks up me. And we go back inside. And I sleep in our bed, cuddled against his chest.
And the cab never comes.
And this is Valentine's Day.