Long Division
And then we split up our possessions. Such a strange thing to do. Who, for example, would be so bold as to claim the box of cold medicine that had expired two years ago? More things were thrown out than divided, it seemed.
There were many things that were clearly mine: my clothes, my Weezer CDs, my stuffed animals, the fast food kids' meal toys that I collected on a whim, my makeup, and a box of Slimfast snack bars that I had purchased in a halfhearted attempt to kick off a new, healthier lifestyle.
I really did want the oak end tables that were given to us by my Aunt Miranda as a wedding/housewarming gift, but there seemed to be no use in taking these tables to my father's crowded new apartment, so I conceded them to Brian. In the end, though, there were so many things that we thought of as "ours," like the blender, the electric pencil sharpener, plastic cups purchased at Cubs games, the small, dusty fish tank in which a small school of neon tetras had resided until their untimely deaths, that it was hard to disentangle the threads of ownership. Who used it more? Who thought to buy it in the first place? After four hours, these questions became impossible to contemplate.
I would not, would not cry in front of him. I was so grateful when he left the room or went to the bathroom so I could let the tears run freely down my face for a few seconds. My head was pounding, and even though a fine sleet poured down outside, covering the streets, the sidewalks, the steps, and the railing with a slick layer of ice, I felt hot and flushed.
Whenever I happened upon some object whose ownership could not be determined, I would hold it up, and Brian would stare coldly at it. He never said a word one way or another about whether he particularly wanted the item or whether he had hated it all along. As the cheater, the wrongdoer, the betrayer of sacred confidences, it was my role to stammer, "Well, I never really use the toaster, and Dad has one anyway, so I guess you can have it."
I left Brian's apartment that night with not much more than I had originally packed for college my first time around. After I had packed up the last of the second and final carload, I went back inside to give Brian my keys to the apartment, our small storage space in the building's basement, and his car. My hands shook as I tried to pry these keys off of the key ring. There was an awkward silence as he watched me struggle. Finally he had to help me. He removed the keys effortlessly and handed the key ring, noticeably lighter, back to me.
"Okay, well, I guess that's it, then," I began.
"Yeah, all right," he tonelessly replied.
I wasn't sure how to bid him farewell. Was "goodbye" too final? Would "see ya" prove to be accurate? Was it really a question of never seeing each other again? Did I really have to do this? Couldn't I bring everything back inside from the car and put it all right back where it belonged and promise to be a veritable slave if he would forgive me?
"So...I guess I'll see you around then."
He nodded.
I stepped forward with my arms slightly outstretched to hug him goodbye, but he stepped backward out of reach.
"Okay," I said, reeling, "Yeah. Okay."
I turned around and ran out to my car, slipping and nearly falling on the icy driveway.
--karen