Shadows for Breakfast

True tales of mortal beloveds, unopened boxes of rain

by Wes Biggs

It really got to me about the time I found the two ticket stubs for "Immortal Beloved" in a stack of papers I'd somehow ended up with after hurriedly moving out of our apartment. The move took three trips with her $400 `70s Toyota haphazardly loaded so I couldn't see out the rear-view mirror or even put the seat back far enough to be comfortable.
Three trips to a new place a block away (I could actually see the new building from the old if I looked through the interpolated parking structure at the right angle and with the right amount of apprehension) that had a worse paint job and a few more roaches and a bit of a musty smell halfway between old Chinese cooking and peeling ceiling tiles and, probably most important at the time, nothing to remind me of her.
Destructive moods come naturally with break-ups, but besides drinking myself to sleep and throwing myself into the ocean (it was a week before I was organized enough to wash my jeans, and they'd started to smell a bit fishy), I don't recall much breaking or burning.
Which is probably why I ended up with so much of her junk as well as mine. Really, you don't realize how much crap you own until you have to move it, and I'm far too attached to my crap to recognize it for what it is. I have a box full of pieces of cardboard I've been saving since high school. I don't know why. It just seemed like a good idea, just in case. It could come in handy sometime. I even have a hard time throwing out other people's stuff after they move out; I somehow manage to convince myself I could use those two bottles of soy sauce even though the only time I have Oriental cuisine is when I eat out. Just throw it in a box, it'll have some purpose someday.
Just a box of rain, wind and water. One night that week I walked around aimlessly in the half-drizzle of a March midnight, singing sad songs in my head to keep myself awake so I could walk aimlessly in the half-drizzle of a March midnight and not have to try to sleep, and I saw her everywhere in confused shadows, so I ran away, only to find myself back with my unopened boxes of too many dishes and clothes and condoms and coffee mugs.
They all had their purpose; diffuse memories of more hopeful days. Olden days. They were the tools I had to figure out how to live by myself with. It turned out alright, I guess. I'm doing well for myself, so they say, about as well as I'd hoped to be doing. I still see her now and then, say hello, catch up as much as a 30-second conversation allows for.
But I'm not sure what those two ticket stubs from "Immortal Beloved" were there for; whether I'd subconsciously planted them in my packrat move or if they were just meant to be serendipitous reminders of mistakes I'd made.
See, I never even saw "Immortal Beloved". She did--with him. And all I got was the receipt.
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.