digression: disappearing day
One thing I’ve realized since beginning the Heartbroke Daily is that it’s impossible to compare the different times I’ve had my heartbroken to one another. You can’t say which time hurt more because they always seem to find a different part of your heart to wedge the pain into. That being said, revisiting Connie Converse this morning got me thinking that there’s a special place in my tattered heart for the women who have left without a trace. Something about the lack of closure really hits you in a different way than, say, having it end in an explosive argument or with a well-crafted I-never-want-to-see-you-again letter. Because with any real relationship, the woman becomes a part of you (well, for me, at least) and when they vanish with no warning, it’s like getting sideswiped.
So with that in mind I thought I’d share some of the best (or are they the worst?) stories of women who have disappeared on me. It also occurs to me that some of you might disagree. Some might rather have a loved one simply go, without knowing where or why. That it might make it easier for you to cope if you don’t know what happened. Please share your thoughts in the comments, because I’m curious to know what you might think.
Laila, the phantom itch
The cold, empty side of the bed. The twisted sheets. Laila always insisted that I make her bed each morning. She had a 9 to 5 at the time and I just barely slid by with my laptop and a few gimmicks. So I got to sleep in.
“Just lock the door behind you,” she’d say. “And make my bed; you thrash like crazy—it’s like you’re trying to tie bowler knots with the sheets.”
“That’s only when you’re not in bed with me,” I’d say.
And it was true. In my sleep, after my body sensed she was no longer there, I’d thrash about in the depths of my subconscious, searching for Laila.
Laura, the confidence artist
Kansas City, I wind up playing blackjack next to Laura at an underground casino. I was up about a grand, because I know the game and the limits of my own luck. She was up twice that, because she was counting cards. When I realized what she was doing, I leaned in and whispered, “Listen dollface, when the house gets wise to your math skills, they’re gonna do more then ask for their money back.” She played if off cool – lost the next couple of games on purpose, then headed to the teller to cash out.
A couple of days later, I ran into her at my hotel bar, waiting for some out-of-town businessman to offer her a drink.
Aubra, disappearing act
On my first day back in Boise, I ran into Aubra Banks at a minor league baseball game. Later that night, she took me home and had her way with me. When I woke in the morning, she was gone. I wasn’t surprised – she had left before.
We hadn’t seen or spoken with one another in more that 12 years – not since our sophomore year in high school. One day she just disappeared. A lot of folks took her for dead, me included. Part of me wished she was.
My mother, the piano
My mother played the piano. I used to listen to her as I lied in bed at night. Sometimes I’d sneak to the door in my bedroom and lay there with my head on the carpet. I could better hear her beautiful music that way. I remember on a few occasions her stopping the music suddenly. She would slam her hands down upon the keys and let out a long, painful wail.
She left my father and me when I was five. It sounds cliché, but she literally went out for groceries and never came back. The only thing she left behind was her piano.
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