The night does funny things inside a man.

 

It arrived in the form of a roll of film. You sent me a package – some things I left behind, and some things you threw in, like a cookbook and a bag of coffee from my favorite cafe in New York. That was all nice, but you didn’t even put in a note. Not even, Hello. Here is some stuff for you. Goodbye.

Nothing. No note. But there was a roll of film, undeveloped. I found it rolling around the bottom of the box. I had no idea what it was. I carried it around for two weeks before dropping it at the photomat. In stories and on TV, it would be a love letter in photographic form. Or scenic shots, and the final one would be you, holding a sign that says, I’m Sorry. Come Home. I Love You.

Sometimes my life feels like it exists in stories or on TV, but not with you. Never with you did it feel that romantic or unreal or ripe with surprises in that way.

But think about it, the promise or disappointment that lies within the plastic casing of a complete roll of 35mm film…

The result could be anything. They could be great snapshots. Or everyone could look fat and bloated. They could be overexposed, perhaps even in an arty way. Maybe the photographer cut people off at the neck and the result is 24 unflattering photos of bosoms. The photos could all be a cloudy gray – maybe the film didn’t catch on the spool. 

Maybe they tell a story. A beautiful story about a boy and a girl and a love so full and dense and fleeting that it bloomed atop a cliff at Big Sur and died somewhere between a Caribbean beach and the first snowfall of Manhattan the following winter.

Or maybe it’s just two dozen photos of cats. That’s what I got when I had the roll developed. Two dozen shoddily taken photos of our beloved cats.

It’s not the cats that interested me, however. It’s the background that I find riveting. These photos, taken in our – excuse me, YOUR – apartment. Once upon a time, these would be evidence of our domesticity, our babies in our home. 

But they’re just photographs of my cats in your house. The filth and the complete removal of me. That’s what amazes me. 

About the photos, aside from the cats:

Photo one – the soap dispenser I bought. All the knives on a magnetic strip; one is dirty. Crumpled foil and takeout bags on the counter. A bottle of open wine. Did you drink that alone?

Photo three – the bathroom. I see you’ve taken to wearing your contacts, as there is a bottle of saline front and center in the cabinet. You look so handsome with glasses, my love. One toothbrush in the holder. And you got new towels. They are reflected in the mirror. They look like the  ones I bought in Paris and have in my new flat. Congratulations; we still share a mind.

Photo four – you should wipe the drain. It’s disgusting.

Photo five – the plant in the living room is dying. And that chair is not suitable for people to sit on without a cushion. Without the cushion, it’s merely a skeleton of a chair. I guess you pulled it out for company. I see the Christmas lights I strung around are still up.

Photo six – oh, you unearthed the weird wax pyramids that you hid when we lived together. Now they’re placed all around the windowsills. It’s like you were waiting for me to disappear so you could resume your strange fixation. I have four words for you, darling: They won’t heal you. And three more: They’re just wax.

Photo eleven – is there cat litter everywhere or just everywhere in this photo? Sweet love, are you living in squalor? You moved my armoire to the other side of the room. It’s chockfull of books. How did you manage that? I presume you went through the drawers. Maybe you flipped through my books and smelled them. That’s what I would do.

Photo twelve – there’s the broken coffee table. How long did it sit cracked against the wall before you took it out? Or is it still there? I want that stepstool back. How, exactly, did it get out of the closet – where I know I left it with the rest of my things – and into the kitchen?

Photo seventeen – cat litter scattered around the front door. Welcome!

Photo eighteen – I’m sorry you’re cold without me there to warm you. Three duvets layered on the bed, that’s how I know. That green one has a come stain; wash it before you bring a girl home.

Photo twenty – trash all over the countertops. Orange juice containers, and a bag of takeout. I know exactly what that smells like.

Photo twenty-one – cat food on the kitchen floor and a dirty, crumpled paper towel in the corner.

Photo twenty-two – glad you’re making use of my shelves. Your toys never did belong in the living room. 

Photo twenty-three – you’ve taken to keeping all the lights on and the blinds pulled up, even at night. More wax pyramids. I guess you bought more, more for the healing.

Typically, I wouldn’t be so critical and analytical, but I’ve never seen the manifestation of my own erasure. Have you? The mutilation of giving myself over to someone else and to domesticity. Flipping through the photos, it’s like watching myself slowly disappear. 

And now I see why we’re not together – you don’t give a shit about anything. You didn’t appreciate that I believed in the best of you – the best of us – and wanted to make our life beautiful. 

I walked slowly down North End Road and looked at the photos, one at a time, without breathing. I came home and locked my door and looked at my perfect flat and danced and cooked and ate and sang. I caught a dirty fruitfly in my hand and released it out the open window.