Congratulations on Leaving Your Apartment!

Blackout shades will have been drawn for almost three weeks at this point, possibly longer. You’ll only have been keeping track for three weeks, the period wherein time began again, following his departure, his last departure from this place, this space, this absolute lack of rhythm with full carpet and half a kitchen. By now you’ll be low on ramen, low on mac n cheese. The bag of rice will be holding up, but your soy sauce supply will verge on critical.

Cereal will be okay: a month ago you’ll have made the trip to Costco, where you can just buy garbage bags of the shit. But milk won’t be quite so forgiving. So today, when you get up and pour your start of the day bowl of Depressarios then wander to the fridge to get milk you won’t know what to do when the container sits there, totally empty.

You’ll consider cutting your cereal with water, but for some reason that won’t feel right. That’ll feel like letting him win, like if you do that he’ll really have been totally right about you. You’ll check your fridge a second time, then a third. No other milk in there, not even some questionable rice milk. Your cabinets will be bereft of powdered milk, possibly the only non-perishable food absent from your pantry. You’ll stand there in your kitchen, cabinets shut, fridge closed, holding your shoes, wondering if the potential exists for milk to simply spontaneously appear in your kitchen if you nap hard enough. It will seem implausible.

You’ll think about the walk down the hall, the looks you’ll be sure to encounter, the grimaces and groans of your neighbors, the potential for mumbles as you stride out of your building, down the street and into the corner store, where you’ll have to purchase milk with a debit card because you’ll have used up all your cash paying delivery people. You’ll think of the kids in do-rags, the old men in aviators, every possible reason to stay indoors.

Then you’ll think of his face, sneer upturned underneath glasses, shimmering in the light of the television. You’ll think of how he’d say you can’t even grab milk without me, jesus, the unspoken pathetic behind his eyes behind his glasses. You’ll chew your lip and slip your shoes on without socks. Open your door. Step out.

The light at the end of the hall will be dim, bright. It won’t be painful, not yet, but you’ll know in your heart that it’ll be painful once you get into the stairwell, where it’ll be brighter, more immediate. It’ll be painful, you’ll think, but worth it to keep eating cereal. Your Converse will squish with your first step down the hall, sweat already soaking into the insert.

Congratulations on Leaving Your Apartment!