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Three weeks ago, they’d been waking up in the same bed. George could blink open his eyes and see Dream’s face just inches from his, quiet breathing making the bangs in front of his face flutter. He’d gotten up and padded to the curtain, opening it to throw the pastel morning light over his boyfriend’s face.
Pretty.
George had reached out--because he could--and combed his fingers through Dream’s hair. He traced the outline of Dream’s face with one finger, featherlight, admiring and caressing all in one touch.
“I love you,” he’d whispered into the still air. After months together, he knew Dream was a heavy sleeper, but he still pretended he might hear the endearments George scattered in the early morning.
George headed downstairs, shuffling through cabinets and the fridge to find breakfast for two. His back was to the door as he heard the Alexa quietly burst into song, “Kitchen Lovin’” and Dream encircled him from behind, pressing his sleepy face into George’s shoulder.
“Good morning,” this was muffled, “I love you.”
They moved through their routine with the cozy domesticity that was their trademark since they got together. Over the kettle’s insistent whistling, Dream took George’s hand and spun him around, moving forward and back in promised harmony. He ended the move with George twirled into his chest, arms around him in the same embrace George had gotten over a year ago, when, held in the same position, Dream had whispered the word “boyfriend” in his ear. George tilted his head a few inches and smiled up at Dream, watching enchanted eyes look down on him. When breakfast was ready, they carried the steaming food back to the bedroom, shouting and laughing as they raced each other upstairs, pushing and shoving in all kinds of longstanding affection.
Three weeks ago, they’d been in the same bed. Three weeks later, different zip codes.
George wasn’t even sure if he could consciously recall the fight that had ended in the breakup. It had been a barrage of emotions--first, the realization that Dream, his favorite person in the world, was yelling at him. Really, truly yelling. It didn’t register as words so much as anger, but George remembered shouting back, his irate voice ramping up to Dream’s level. It had ended with a slammed door and a cold, empty bed.
After that, it never got better.
Every small problem that had been glossed in affection as they moved in together became substance for a deafening disagreement: the way George left wet towels on the bathroom floor, or the way Dream let the dishes stack up. They’d chosen their streaming rooms to be close together, in order to hear the whoops and cheers of the other through the wall. Now, any celebration was met with three quick bangs on the drywall that separated them, short, hostile, and dismissive.
Each accidental touch was a disaster while they waited for the lease to be up. (They’d had the foresight to break up near the end of the month). On good days, George apologized when he bumped against Dream in the kitchen, or slipped past him in the hall. On bad days, he snapped when Dream entered the same room, throwing the ugly words from the fight back in his face.
There was too much time to pack the boxes; George was pretty sure they’d been working on it individually since the words “...break up” had tumbled out of their mouths. At last, he’d slammed a note down in front of Dream, the date and time for a moving truck. Wordlessly, Dream joined him in shifting boxes from George’s room to the entryway, stacking them amongst streaming gear, disassembled furniture, and simmering bitterness.
They moved in a weird sort of sync, mostly staying out of each other’s way, until George felt another body, sticky from the summer heat, run into him from behind.
“Sorry.”
George said nothing, and they kept loading.
He nearly went batshit when there was a buzz on his wrist, the contact one touch too many. Frustrated, he shifted the box he was holding against his hip and tilted the screen up.
What do you know about love?
If he had two hands, he probably would’ve smacked the watch to turn it off instead of just dropping his arm in resigned, sweaty frustration.
George remembered the day he’d installed the app, recommended in the “essential suite”. It had promised motivational quotes sporadically through the day, whenever the user needed encouragement. Usually, it was the paraphrased advice of bygone leaders, or shitty, sappy quips that would put tumblr blogs to shame. He’d yet to turn it off, but as he shifted the box again and felt the notification, undismissed, buzz twice more, he let the words seep through his head.
What do you know about love?
It felt like a quote meant for couples, meant for people on their golden or diamond anniversaries--the kind of wisdom that 40, 50, 60 years of marriage could spew. It felt like an FRQ for every 14 year old’s journal or poetry notebook, the stuff of black Snapchat screens, 11:11s, and screenshots with the username blurred out.
It twisted in his chest, the word love, like yearning limbs and forgotten words. Love felt like a secret, a song, a prayer. It was an inclusive exclusivity, a promise proclaimed but secretive in its execution. Love was a shut and locked door, protecting, hiding two people in their union from the cruel world.
He eyed the stone path up to the entryway. With his hands full, he’d neglected to shut the main door against the heat, instead just hip checking the screen out of the way to exit. Even from a few feet away, he felt the breeze of the AC pouring out into the Orlando heat. It would be right to head over and shut it properly, but as he turned, it swung shut with slightly too much force. Through the distortion of the decorative glass slits, he watched the blond head move away.
What do you know about love ?
George knew that it didn’t last.