Kicking The Habit

Here I am, trying so hard to study for my psychology midterm
tomorrow, but I know I'm going to fail real bad; 'cause you won't let
me concentrate.

I've been reading the same page over and over again, but then I see you
peeking at me over the corner of the page, making that moronic,
cross-eyed face of yours. And I can't help cracking up.

Then I throw my teddy bear at you, groan out loud and hide my head
under the pillow in the manner of an ostrich in a sandstorm, but even in the stifling darkness, you're still there.

Damn.

I come out for air, push my hair off my face, look at the miserable mess of my room, and I wonder desperately if I will ever kick the habit
of having you in my head.

The night you slept on my floor, I lay awake, watching your face that I could never touch, after we'd been dancing all night. I taught you how to salsa, your hand on my back, come closer, look me in the eyes, this is the language of love, and you did, while the world and your girlfriend melted away.

Later that night, you slept a breath's distance away from me, and I asked all the gods in heaven to open your eyes, see me, and bring you
towards my waiting arms.

But you never did. The next morning, you made me waffles for breakfast.
You make really good waffles.

Suddenly, this room is too small, too quiet, so I climb off my bed, step over the space where you once lay, grab the car keys, and run out
of the room.

I wish they had a cure for this disease, some guarantee that I will get out alive, but there is none. It's a silent virus that creeps in
slowly while you sleep, and you never really know the extent of the damage, until it's too late, and he's in your head, even in the dark,one year later.

I run out into the cold, January night, in my PJ's and fluffy slippers, towards my car, open the door; climb in, hands shivering as I try to
start the engine.

It's going to snow, I can smell it.

I beg the car to start, I coax and flirt with it, then I lose my temper
and shout: "For God's sake, stop being a brat and just get to it!!"
The car instantly starts, and I feel all smug about it.

Driving through the neighborhood,
I see the playground and remember the day we sat on the swings, biting our popsicles and watching the kids play.

When I asked you how old you were, you thought about it, then said, "I think I'm sixteen and sixty, both fighting for a voice in me. But I
wish I were like them five year olds," and you watched the kids for a while, then you said, "Fucking bastards, they're so carefree, I envy
them."

I watched the way your hair curled out behind your ear, and then it began.

Now I flick on the radio, find 'Foolish Games', switch stations, find
'This Year's Love', switch, find 'I Will Always Love You', curse under
my breath and search for punk rock.

And under the deafening screech of guitars, I try to think of happy thoughts, raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens, but I keep
coming back to you.

Driving down the freeway, I wonder if the cars driving past can see me, a girl in her baby blue PJs with a red nose and a big flashing L
sign on her forehead.

Because from the moment I loved you, I became the loser. I gave up on everything I had just to be near you, and when you left, only when you
left, did I understand what nothing meant.

I never told anyone, kept it to myself like a guilty secret. And I know when people read this, they'll say, "We had no idea, we never
knew."
But there was nothing to know about. Nothing every happened to justify the feelings I had, despite myself, despite you and every common-sense
advice my friends had given me.

Stay calm, think happy thoughts, maybe I should call my mama, see how she's doing. You. I need to grow my nails, if only I could biting them.
You. I need to go shopping, the sales start tomorrow. You.

I swing off the road, park the car, turn off the engine.

Then I hit my head on the steering wheel.

Must. Get. You. Out. Of. My. Head.

Ow.

I rest my head on the wheel, listening to my breathing, and I feel
ridiculous.
But then, everything about this has always been ridiculous.
How can you love someone with every atom of your being, when he doesn't even know the color of your eyes?

I climb out of the car, hating you, heartless, misogynist, selfish bastard.
I slam the door, kick the door, and then remember it's made of steel, and I'm wearing fluffy slippers.

The pain sears up through my toes, I grab my foot, jumping up and down and yelling like an idiot.
Then, when it stops hurting, I look up to see where I am.

This is the street where you live.

And if this were a movie, I would run to your place, knock on your
door, and you'd open to find me, red nose and flashing L on my
forehead, and then you'd realize that you've been in love with me all along.

If this were a movie, you would be cured of your superficial obsession with blondes and fake laughter; you would cling to me as if I was your
lifeline. And then, I would have my happy ending.

Sometimes, when it got too much to bear, I would call you up at night
and talk so fast, scared to pause for breath in case you might stop me and tell me to go to sleep and think before I speak. You always said I
took myself too seriously.
You were wrong.
I took you too seriously.

I lock the car, dig my hands into my pockets, and walk down the street under the orange lights.
Remember the night we ran home in the rain, giddy with alcohol and sheer lust for life, you dragged me into Blockbusters and rented the
Hudsucker Proxy?
And then we had chicken pizza from the Lebanese deli round the corner,
I sat on your floor and you wrote me a list of movies I needed to watch
that winter: Godfather, Shawshank Redemption, Pulp
Fiction...

You were intent on educating me, and I didn't mind; as long as it made me a better person, more like you, and as long as we did this again,
this simple bliss of you and me together out of the rain.

You see, the thing is, it didn't always feel like a one-sided obsession. Sometimes, you would talk to me, and I had a feeling you were sharing a face with me that no one else could see. I felt that you had a hole in your heart that I could fill with my clumsy hands, my wide smile, and the fact that I always saw through your bullshit and
never fell for the lines you tried to bribe me with.

I just fell for you even more.

I walk into the store where you used to buy your groceries, and the guy at the counter doesn't even look up. I guess he's used to seeing girls
in their PJs on cold January nights.

I walk down the narrow aisles, cramped with cans of noodles, soaps, and oversweet cereal packs.
At the end of the aisles, the blue freezer shines like a gem in the dark, shelves piled high with ice cream tubs and frozen chicken
wings.
My hands gravitate towards a tub of Haagen Daaz chocolate chip, that
you once held on your balcony, while I sat on the sill and tried really hard to look cool, even though the bars were digging into my butt and
staining my jeans.
And you said, "I love the way you understand me," and you gave me the
last of your Haggen Daaz. And my heart, like the ice cream at the
bottom of the tub, melted to my feet.

Because no one had ever given me the last of his Haagen Daaz.

I walk to the counter; the guy looks up and gives me a smile.

"How you doing tonight?" he asks as he packs the Haagen Daaz into a paperbag and rings up the total on the machine.

I look at him and in my head, I answer 'What do you think? I'm in my PJs buying ice cream in January, do I look happy?!'

But instead I just smile back and say,
"Pretty good, you?"
"I dig the PJs," he flashes me a grin, "cool teddy bear motif."

I blush, and then wonder, wait, is he flirting with me?

I've locked myself for so long in a world where only your absence and my denial exist, I won't let any new faces in, and it's getting lonely.

I look at the guy, and notice that his eyes are a sharp green, yours
were brown, but his are green, and a change isn't bad.

I look at the tub of ice cream on the counter, and suddenly, you've left a taste in my mouth that, like too much chocolate chip ice cream,
is too sweet; too heavy to last longer than this.

Staring at the tub of ice cream, I think 'This is my goodbye', and I finally see the ridiculousness of you, me, the whole last year of
bullshit.

The tub of ice cream, flirting with the guy at the counter, these are my ways of finally cutting ties.

It may take time, and a little more of my worn-out patience, you were a sweet memory, swimming in my tummy, but I think I prefer vanilla
now.