Independence Day

LAST NIGHT:  I’m thinking 4th of July is Independence Day.  It’s been coming for awhile.  I’ve been slowly connecting dots while arranging ducks in neat little rows.  Patience is a virtue.

He hasn’t touched the little off-white chip of what I suspect to be his favorite rock candy yet… I found it on the bed sheet, right where he sits to roll his smokes, and laid it on the black base of the lamp on my nightstand. Maybe he hasn’t seen it yet. Maybe it’s not what I think it is… I don’t do that shit, suppose it could be tested, but how do you go about doing that? I don’t know, so I texted a photo to an ex-druggie. He suggested licking it to see if it will numb my tongue. I really didn’t want to do that, so I barely touched a tiny edge to the tip… the sensation reminded me of alum.

 

EARLIER TODAY:  I had just put the chicken and ribs that “someone” (his word choice) barbequed into the toaster oven to warm up when a glint of fresh cut metal on his keychain caught my eye.  He usually drops his keys on the stand by the door.  But today, he came in with bags of food and left his keys on the kitchen table.  I sat there like nah… then spread them out to see.  For the last couple years, he only had three keys on his keychain (key to my house, key to his apartment, and his mailbox key) and now there were four and I know damn well that brand new, freshly cut house key was NOT on his keychain when he was here last. I could also tell from the shape of the cut that it was NOT a duplicate of his or mine. So, who the fuck gave him a key to their crib?

Of course, I had to ask whose keys are on his keychain… in nicer words (no swearing) even if I couldn’t keep the edge out of my voice. He was instantly hot, declaring “they’re mine” and claiming the fourth key is some random old key that he’s had for years, blah, blah, blah… yadda yadda.

Long story short: we broke up.  Then we talked… we both knew it was coming.  He says it’s what I wanted.

No, it’s not.  I love him… this rips my heart out, but it has to be… his choice, my choice, our choice… trust erodes on secrets and lies. Hiding addiction requires secrets and lies. The key was just the breaking point. He can swear up and down that he’s not seeing someone else, but that brand new key opens someone’s door.  He could have picked a better lie… told me it was a spare to his sister’s house, something I could believe.  He can’t even tell me who cooked the chicken.

It doesn’t matter.  He walked away in the pouring rain.

 

BTW, I flushed the crack.

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