Locked Out at 2:13 AM

Absalom Abalone

“I hate you!”

I wrestled the bottle from his hands and threw it to the floor. The glass shattered and its shards were scattered across the small room. I began to cry. I’d cried in front of him before, but I never cried like this. The way I felt, the act I had just committed: this was something I could only—and before now did only—fantasize about. Like a dream come true in the realest sense.

When he had opened the door, his eyes were half-closed and bleary. Now they were blinking, slowly widening into what was likely surprise and also what I hoped was fear. His mouth grew open bit by bit and I could smell the stench of alcohol on his breath.

I felt wrath flood into my blood like white-hot fire. My jaw was trembling. My shoulders heaved with every breath as he stood there frozen, stick-still. The fluorescent kitchen lights shone down on us like spotlights. Tiny slivers of sharp glass gleamed on top of the cold, white floor tile.

“I hate you! You don’t care about me at all! I knew it!”

I felt as if I was no longer an inhabitant of my own body. The words I yelled came from the mouth of a lookalike actor in my place. But I hadn’t felt that I lost control of myself. In fact, I had never felt a moment before in my life where I felt such self-possession and mental clarity. I stared daggers into his eyes. They remained slightly glassy, but his face was hardened. I went on:

“You never think about me! Do I even mean anything to you?”

My face was red and wet from my tears. Seconds hung in the air. He was motionless when he spoke.

“Abby—”

“I’m nothing to you!” I blurted. This wasn’t part of the dream. This wasn’t part of the fantasy. Why wasn’t he following the script? His expression was stoic and inscrutable. My breathing was rapid and heavy, and I could feel my pulse pounding from within me, ready to burst. I started to sob.

“I thought you loved me. But you don’t. You...” I couldn’t finish. All my clarity and wrath had vanished and was replaced with shame. My throat was twisted in knots and ached in pain. You don’t love me, I wanted to scream. You don’t love me. You never loved me. I hate you. I cried harder. The floor was getting wet with my tears. He remained as statue-like as ever.

I burned with humiliation. I couldn’t stand to be there anymore, underneath his judgement and scrutiny. I grabbed my apartment keys from the kitchen counter, where I had left them last afternoon, before I stormed through the front door, making sure to slam it on the way out. It slammed loudly and stung my ears.

I opened the door to the stairwell at the end of the hallway and sat down on the first step. I didn’t know if I hoped that he would come look for me here or not. The old stairwell was never used by anyone in the apartment building; it was cramped, dusty, and dirty. The unfinished, jagged concrete of the steps were as cold as ice. I brought my flimsy windbreaker tighter over me and continued to shiver and weep, gasping pathetically in the stale, musty air.

After some time—perhaps it was minutes or hours—I fell asleep.

I woke up with a start, completely disoriented before I recalled the events of the night before. My face flushed with embarrassment at the memory, although it seemed so distant now. I checked my watch for the time. It was 9:30. I couldn’t believe it I had slept in the stairwell for that long. My joints were stiff and painful, and my whole body ached as I stood up. I wondered where I would go. I couldn’t crash a friend’s place since I didn’t want anyone to know what had happened last night. But I also wanted a hot shower. I decided that I would go back to my apartment for a short while—he was usually still asleep at this time on weekends anyway.

I stopped in front of the apartment door, ready to slide the key into the lock. My thoughts spiraled wildly in my hesitation. Why did you do that last night? Are you just trying to cause drama? Why are you so over-emotional and needy? He already treats you well. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wants to break up with you. Maybe you were right when you said that he doesn’t love you. Maybe it’s true that he never did. I don’t know how anyone could stay in love with a person like you.

I opened the door. The kitchen light was still on, even though it was already bright outside. A broom and a dustpan rested against the kitchen counter; most of the glass shards were gone. He sat at the far end of our tiny dinner table, his right arm propped up against an armrest. He held his head up with his hand. His eyes were closed and I watched his chest slowly rise and fall.

“Hey,” I whispered, “I’m home.”

I watched him sleep for another minute. Then I picked up the broom and began to sweep away the rest of the glass.