Those Damned Dishes.

Standing over the faucet, scrubbing the dishes for the third time, iPod blaring in my ears. It's 3 AM, and I'm doing dishes. They need to be done. They've been here for a week, and they're still dirty. In my mind I hear his voice repeatedly. Chris, you complete me.

Just keep scrubbing. Those damned dishes are still dirty.

They're forming in my eyes, I just won't let them find fruition. Just keep scrubbing. How did I let this many dishes pile up? How silly of me. An image of us together pops in my mind. My eyes are wet, my cheeks are curling up, I can't go a fucking second without blinking. Don't do it, he's not worth it.

The smell of Palmolive is getting to me. My hands are wrinkled from having them under a faucet for an hour. I remember the sensation of his head laying on my chest, the smile he found when he looked me in the eye, the way his eyes would simmer when he'd laugh. Don't let your roommates hear you. I turn the faucet on louder. I'm not doing this.

And then I began doing it. Streaming out of my eyes, faucet blaring so my roommates won't hear me, iPod blasting so I can't hear myself. The sweet cacophony of anger and sorrow converging into one blissful and blatant turmoil of emotions. How did I get to this? I thought I was the one who said, "It's over"?

Eyes narrow, hands trembling. The tears effortlessly cascade down my cheeks. A chill caresses my entire body. I'm both warm and cold, shivering yet unshaken. You won't miss him, Chris.

No, I won't.