Carlos Typhoon

flash fiction

HE GOODBYED—

He could feel himself thinking it.  

And it wasn’t in the way that he looked at her. Or the touch of his hand to her neck. Nor the squeeze of his embrace. It wasn’t in the kisses that she gave him. Or the way that she held his gaze. No—his focus was on the fact that her science degree was in psychology not physics, that her mode of expression was writing sketches and screenplays rather than poems and novels, that she wasn’t as tall as he’d always imagined, her feet were a little big, and her hair was much too curly. He was thinking about his idealized partner, and all the ways that she didn’t match up to it. He was thinking about how she had only read two or three of his favorite authors, and he’d only read one of hers. How she had never even heard of his favorite band, and he didn’t know a single song by hers. How she hadn’t seen any of the classic Kurt Russell films before, no Used Cars, no Big Trouble in Little China, not even Captain Ron.

He could feel himself saying it.  

And it wasn’t in the words from his mouth. Or the ideas she inspired inside him. Nor the way that she made him feel. It wasn’t in the smiles she was always giving him. Or the laughter that seemed to surround them. No—his thoughts centered around his creativity that had been fueled by pain not love, around the work-ethic he had developed by isolating himself rather than letting people in, around the free time he never seemed to have enough of anymore, the alone time he had grown so accustomed to, and the solitude that used to inspire him. He was focused on the life he had built for himself these last few years, and all the ways that she was disrupting it. He was focused on the pride of self-reliance, and how her help was constantly undermining it. On his need for independence, and how her presence was burning this to the ground. On all the ways he felt himself changing, no more lonely nights, no lonely walks on the beach, no spontaneous weekends up the coast by himself. 

He could feel himself doing it.  

And it wasn’t in the look he saw in her eyes. Or the tone he heard in her voice. Nor the tears trickling down her cheeks. It wasn’t in the way he clutched her tightly. Or how she softened in his arms. No—his attention was on the limitations and naivety involved in trying to dream up the “woman of his dreams,” on how his loneliness had always been relished alongside hopes of a future partnership, on the fear associated with being in a new relationship, which was understandable and only natural, but deserved to be overcome. He was realizing the splendor of his life, and all the ways she made it richer. He was thinking about all the great books and bands and movies he would get to introduce her to, all the ones he would learn of from her, and all those they would discover together. He was focused on all the times they were going to get to spend with each other, the good and the bad, both harrowing and ecstatic, from adventure-filled to mundane. He was realizing all the things he needed to let go of, all the things he needed to do, and say, and think, all the things he needed to feel, in order to truly tell her: I love you.