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Prosies







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July 21, 2003

She was standing at the front door. Wearing a red shirt. I pulled up in my old car, closed the door, pulled out my bag, slung it over my shoulder, walked up to her, like an ass. Like a supplicant. Like the runaway girlfriend I am.

"Did you get my message?" I said, knowing she had. Or she wouldn't be waiting there at the front door, blocking my way into the home I used to live in.

"No," she said.

"Today is not a good day," she said. "Call me later in the week to arrange a time."

So I cannot go in there anymore. That's the price I pay for my freedom.

I turned around and went home. To my empty home without cats, to the scattered possessions I took with me before she came back and reclaimed what is rightfully hers—the land she farmed for 20 years before I came along. This is the price I pay for my freedom.

I just want to evacuate the rest of my belongings. I hope she remembers the disdain she feels for those vindictive women who throw their lovers' belongings into the street. Remember how you used to love me, Quick. Treat me with the dignity and respect you'd show a stranger.