empty can of miller

An empty can of Miller beer sat on the porch step. I looked at it as the hazy fog of a morning dew slowly moved about the yard. A cricket chirped and a lone seagull whined.

At that moment I knew it was over.

I kicked the can into the yard, putting a dent in the side. I didn’t get any kind of satisfaction in the act. Just the opposite. The rattling of the can in the dirt and rocks of my yard echoed against the bar across the street. The sound bouncing off the wall and back to me.

I sighed. Resigned to the knowledge of what that can meant – she was cheating on me.

Inside, the glow of a far off sunrise was beginning to peak in. The old rotted white blinds – some stuck half open with frayed strings and cracked plastic pieces, others just leaning half opened, half closed due to a fit of anger or spontaneous fun – each allowed a different amount of light in.

I walked into our room. It had heavy Wal-Mart curtains that kept most of the light out and wood paneling that sucked up whatever got through the brownish monstrosities like a dirty, mildewed sponge. Looking at the bed I looked at her sleeping. She had this smile on her face, even in her dreams, that I just didn’t understand. I’m never happy, so her ability to always be happy – even in sleep – made me a bit batty.

A loud thud filled the room when I dropped a can of peanuts. It was the only heavy thing I saw in my living room on the way to the bedroom. It had to do.

“Wha?” she moaned as the noise broke sleep’s grasp. “Honey, what are you doing?”

“Kicking you out,” I said, matter of factly. “You need to get your stuff and leave.”

Of course “getting your stuff” was a little more complicated than just grabbing the dirty underwear on the floor and a toothbrush. We’d been living together now for two years. Her stuff was all over. My stuff was in many ways her stuff. Her stuff, well, it was mostly still her stuff.

“Stop joking honey, come back to bed,” she mumbled, pulling the covers over her head.

“I mean it Jane,” I bellowed. My anger wasn’t increasing, but my lack of patience was.

Rarely did I use her name. I always was like that. When I dated someone, I hated using their name. Didn’t really like hearing my own. Weird? Probably. But it was what I did. So this time, she knew I was serious about what I was saying.

“What is this about, Randy,” she said, emphasizing my name. Almost like a battle cry kind of thing.

“You’re fucking Scott. Aren’t you?”

Scott was the guy who came over to fix our fridge when it stopped working. He also came to fix a window. A gutter. The leaky porch door and many other things that I never knew were broken. Scott even got a Christmas card two weeks ago. He thanked me for it. I had no idea we’d sent him one, but he showed it to me, signed by me and all. Of course, I signed dozens of cards without knowing who was getting them. It was a ritual that was now two years old. Jane liked sending cards. So did I. But I liked sending them to people I gave a shit about. She sent them to everyone. She started buying them on Dec. 26 and just filled a shoebox with them. Then another. Come November, I was given two piles of cards to sign. One not so big – holding the cards I would want to personalize. The other – not so big and full of ones to people I didn’t know, or had met in passing. It turns out, the dick going inside my girlfriend got one as well.

“Stop being so damn paranoid.”

That was her response. And that let me know I was on to something.

“Fuck you,” I said. Get your stuff out of here before I do.

“What is wrong with you? Are you mad that we haven’t had sex in three months? I told you I was having pain.”

I thought about that. Between the booze and the concerts and the opening of my bar, I hadn’t even noticed that we hadn’t fucked. Maybe that’s why I didn’t really care about what was occurring. I bent over and pulled the covers off. Damn, she had great fucking tits. B cup. Nice large nipples. I’ll miss those.

What she didn’t have, however, was the right to stay here. That can of beer told the tale.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, pulling on her jeans without underwear. I always cringe at that act. Why? Because I imagine the zipper grabbing at things you really don’t want it to grab at. Reason No. 1 that I don’t use the little flap in the underwear to pee through the zipper hole. Just don’t want to get grabbed one night.

“Because you don’t love me,” I said.

“You didn’t want me to love you,” she replied. “It’s written all over your face. And in your own handwriting.”

She was right. And I stopped being even mildly mad.

Bending over, I kissed her on the forehead. We proceeded to have sex. Not great sex, just good sex. Lasted about 11 minutes. I know this because I looked at the Kit Kat Clock on the wall. It’s eyes going left to right, left to right the entire time.

After I rolled off, I looked at her. She was beautiful, even if she couldn’t be true.

“I never asked you to be mine,” I said.

She looked at me. I looked at her. She smiled. I sighed.