Page 3 of Broken Clocks
"Who gave you permission to rearrange me? Certainly not me..."
Erykah Badu's voice curled through my dark bedroom like smoke from one of Granny Rose's old Virginia Slims. I lay motionless, letting the lyrics sink into my skin—each word sewing my broken parts together. The scent of Skin So Soft crept in behind it. It was the oil me Granny used to wear to Sunday service. The smell was in the walls, the carpet reminding me tat she had been here.
"Certainly, certainly, certainly not me."
The last note hung between my ribs like the metaphorical blade he'd left there. Then a thought came, unbidden and brutal—I loved him more than I loved my next breath. Because if I didn't, why was I still so broken over him?
He had fucked me over time and time again, showing me exactly who he was in large, deliberate ways.
He dressed casual cruelties up as love.
He had lied to me like it was easy, like he didn't have to tell me the truth because I'd be there regardless. I was spending time I couldn't get back, retracing the outline of where he used to sleep and he was living his life. Even after he fucked me over. Cheatedon me. Fucked her. Probably gently. I was still grieving the loss of him.
That pitiful-ass thought had me dragging my pitiful-ass self out of my king-sized bed and heading toward the kitchen. My toes sank into the plush carpet as I stood for the first time in twelve hours, my size-16 frame protesting the sudden movement. That was to be expected after three straight days of lying on my big ass. I'd only gotten up to use the bathroom, shower, and eat.
Banana pudding waited in the fridge. His last peace offering before the storm.Just because, he'd said, handing me the container with that smile that always made me forgive him too fast. He was the devil.
I massaged my sore neck, glanced toward the chest of drawers, and considered whether I should at least throw on a shirt.
Nah. I waved the thought off and refocused on what got me out of bed in the first place.
"You got one mission and one mission only, Eshe," I talked to myself aloud. It was a symptom of me stressing. Sometimes it got so bad, I answered back.
Focus. Back to the mission.
I was going to get the pity pudding, eat it, then return to my bed without incident. I wasn't taking no phone calls, wasn't answering no doors. I wanted to be pathetic in peace just a little longer.
I headed towards the door. "Ring the Alarm! I been through this too long, and I'll be damned if I see another chick on your arm!"
I stopped and stood there in my feelings, listening to Beyoncé sing my thoughts, thinking about him. When he showed up five years ago, I knew getting involved with him would end with me heartbroken. I did it anyway, becoming a willing participant inmy own pain. I walked straight into the fire with my eyes open, arms out, like maybe this burn would feel like love. He taught me that the ache of wanting someone who didn't want to be kept by you was just as malevolent as having it and watching it rot in your hands. Never again.
Tears clouded my vision. I felt the lightness of melancholy creeping in, but I refused to let it send me back to bed for another three days. Blinking the tears away, I left my bedroom and bounded down the stairs, naked and barefoot, just as Kelis shouted through the speaker: "I hate you so much right now."
Damn. All morning the radio had been playing music that spoke to my weary-ass soul. I figured one of my ancestors was trying to guide me through these turbulent times—probably my Granny Rose. She'd always been the type to get in your business whether you asked her to or not. When she passed away, I wanted to be buried right along with her.
She had raised me—sacrificing twenty-five years of her life after my momma, who didn't even show up for her funeral, up and left when I was three. Since nobody knew who my daddy was, she was all I had—besides a best friend I wasn't even really friends with anymore.
Five years after she'd passed, I was still missing her, especially when I first woke up and expected to smell something good drifting under my bedroom door. She cooked breakfast every morning before sending me off to school or work. Even after I became an adult, she kept the tradition.
I didn't think I'd survive her death. For months after the funeral, I was drowning in sorrow. He was the one that helped me heal. He made me love him.
Suddenly, pain clutched my heart. I violently shoved memories of him—and my granny—out of my head. Thinking of them fortoo long always hurt—turned me into a big-ass crybaby. I wasn't in the crying mood anymore.
Exhaling a deep, cleansing breath, I shook my head and blinked back the burn behind my eyes. I wasn't about to cry. Not when I didn't have anybody to console me.
"Focus, Eshe."
I opened the fridge and pulled out my pudding. My mouth watered. It had been at least twelve hours since I last ate.
Just as I picked up a spoon, ready to dig in, my phone vibrated next to my arm.
"I'm not answering the phone," I repeated my earlier declaration aloud, but still peeked—wondering if it was him.
And it was.
My heart rate climbed. This was his seventy-fifth call in three days.
My palms itched. Everything in me wanted to answer—but I wouldn't.
