By: Regan Puckett
I still remember that night. It’s been weeks, but it lingers in my mind like a ghost, haunting me every time she loosens her grip when we hold hands, or turns her body away from mine in our bed at night. I’d been blind for months about what was truly happening between us, oblivious to the slow and steady decline in our connection, until in a single moment all of the warning bells and flashing signs appeared — WARNING: LOVELESS CITY AHEAD. How had I missed the signs?
To her, that night probably faded into the blur of Friday evenings spent on the couch next to each other until the sky grew dark and our faces became shrouded in the blue lights of our cellphones. This had become our routine. Sometimes we would turn a movie on, a decision that was often made after arguing with one another about which genre to watch. Either way, it never mattered who won — the movie always became white noise as we’d drift deeper into the Internet and further away from one another. It hadn’t always been like this. As we embraced the titles of boyfriend and girlfriend, we adopted a new routine: Friday date nights. We’d eat cheap Italian in fancy outfits or we’d see a movie. Back then, there was no fight about who picked the movie; it was always her. Her preferences ranged from sappy love story to tragic love story, and I’d spend the evening watching her more than I’d watch the screen. Inevitably, every time, she’d whisper, with her sweet, slushy breath tickling my ear in the darkness, how sweet it all was, how romantic it all was, and inevitably, every time, I’d turn my head to kiss her.
We didn’t go to movies anymore. After she’d moved in, we stopped going out entirely. It wasn’t a conscious choice, at least not on my part. But I wasn’t complaining either. We had bills to pay, student loans to handle, groceries to buy. The early days of wooing were over. She knew that I loved her, and she didn’t need flowers or a fancy evening out to believe it.
But that night has lingered in my mind because it was the first time that my belief in what I’m saying started to falter. A romance movie flickered across the television screen as I flipped through the channels, searching for something that we might both agree on.
“Turn that off.” She had groaned, rolling her eyes.
“But babe, it’s so sweet! True love, ya know?”
“No, it’s stupid. All of these movies are stupid. Nobody really falls in love like that.”
“Hey, I’m wounded! Where’s our romance, babe?”
“Romance.” She’d said the word like it was something she’d never heard before, voice dripping with sarcasm as she turned back to her phone screen. I’d wrapped my arm around her, leaning in to show her just how romantic I could be, but she’d turned her face before my lips could collide with hers.
We spent the rest of the evening in a comfortable, familiar silence, settling on a movie about serial killers. I’ve wondered since what that says about us — that we can’t stand movies about love, but we eat up movies about crazy people.
I can hear her now, as I sit alone in our bed, lost in my thoughts. She is lost in a romance movie, a movie filled with the same stupid hope and love and grandeur that she’d criticized that same night. She watches them still, I realize. She never stopped watching romantic movies, wishing for romantic things — she only stopped expecting them. What would she do if I walked in right now? Would she curl up under my arm, snuggle into me as we pretended that love was as easy and sweet as the movies made it out to be? Would she turn away from my touch, flip the channel, turn back to her phone?
I turn away from the door, away from the thoughts, away from the woman who has turned away from me, and I close my eyes to sleep.