A Million Little Pieces

I've been in my new apartment for a week and I still find myself tracing a finger along a granite countertop in the bathroom thinking this place is mine with a hint of I don't deserve this.

I think about Scott with regularity. Not with any emotional feeling or attachment. But I think of my apartment I previously rented and how he moved in and screwed everything up for me and I somehow think I still must be punished in my new life. I should pay penance; I shouldn't have bigger and better.

It's been quiet. It's been a bit lonely. But things have been good.

I'm in love with my new refrigerator. It's the most kick-ass, high-tech thing I've ever seen. I opened the freezer to load in my groceries and after a moment, the motor shut off and the refrigerator made this loud, annoying beeping sound until I closed the door. That's new.

I also love my central air. I set it at a pre-determined 78, just cool enough for me and the dog without making the power bill high. I still find myself shivering and looking for a blanket at night. I also cannot tell when it kicks on because the unit is completely silent. No clicks on the thermostat. No gushes of air through the vents. No tell-tale hum.

There are some downsides to the new place. I miss my valet trash service and don't really care for lugging garbage to the shoot. There isn't a designated area for the Femme Fatale, so I must walk her through the city neighborhoods instead of the safety behind building gates. The elevator is kind of slow. But really, these are minor inconveniences.

The other day I went grocery shopping. I walked down the aisles of Aldi's and put one of everything into my cart. I mechanically walked to the dairy cooler and grabbed the sticks of butter that I've had to buy for years. Then I remembered Scott wasn't here anymore and I was free to make my own butter choice. I put the sticks back and grabbed a tub of low-cholesterol margarine and smiled.

Scott pops up in my life as a reminder of things that were. When I stacked my favorite goblets in the cupboard, I saw the swirl in the glass and remembered last Valentine's Day when Scott got mad with me and smashed one of my glasses against the wall. I remember picking the broken shards off the floor, trying to determine what he broke until I saw the swirl. In my new cupboard I counted and confirmed I have one less. Seven instead of eight. My mother had felt bad for me and bought me a new box of goblets for my birthday. "11 instead of 12," I had said.

I imagine the same will happen come Christmas when I'll set up my collector's alma mater santa that he smashed in a million pieces after an angry swipe off the counter. My mother and I sat on the floor of her living room and spent an entire weekend gluing it back together, her shaking with rage the entire time. "It's always your things he breaks," she said.

My things. An absent goblet, 2 broken bowls, 2 shattered plates, and 5 smashed wine glasses. A cracked santa. We're all a little worse for the wear.

But we're still here. Well at least the santa and I are.