I spent my Sunday alone.
I walked around, aimless. I didn't know what to do with myself. I bored me.
I went to the book store like all the other lonely people do on Sunday, trying to forget. Trying.
I walked to the market in the pouring rain, cold wind turning my face dry and red and let's not even mention what all that weather did to my hair. I thought bad thoughts about the women in front of me at the checkout line, the one who was, for some reason, reluctant to move her cart up a mere six inches so I could load my heavy basket full of whatever one buys when one has given up onto the conveyor belt, even though she had only purchased one package of toilet paper.
It was almost too easy to think bad thoughts about her, what with her stupid haircut and nothing but toilet paper. And after she purchased her TP she stared off into space instead of moving her sorry trench coat covered ass forward in line so I could pack my stuff into my bags. I don't know what she was thinking about or why she chose to think about it at that very moment. I mean, what do people who look like that and buy nothing but toilet paper think about really?
But at that point I didn't even know what I was thinking about . All I know is that I didn't want to be at the market alone, and I didn't want to go home because when I got home I knew I was going to see the things that would bring me to my knees, that would cause me to break down in heavy sobs. The things that would remind me of him.
That crumb in the middle of the rug. The little bits of dust behind the speakers. The stuff, whatever it is that sticks to the carpet in the bedroom, the one I refer to as the Velcro Carpet.
They would all remind me of - my vacuum, who had left me for another.
Ok, it was a one time thing, a fling. It meant nothing. I knew that. But still.
And somehow I survived the hours without my vacuum, wondering how he was doing, if Dave was treating him right, if he was working him too hard, if he would forget to empty his crap container.
Next I feared my vacuum would like the music world too much, that he might find recording studio dust way more exciting than kitchen crumbs and he would send Dave home with a note that tried to explain the unexplainable, the unthinkable. He'd probably write it on a post it note because he's a monster like that.
But no. The door opened at 6:00 pm and there he was, unhurt, all in one piece, a little weary looking but very happy to be home. Sometimes the dust isn't dirtier on the other side of the city after all, Infinity. But I forgive you and love you all the same.