The idea that he'd been gone for almost a week felt a little bit surreal. Time had passed him by so quickly while he was in his stupor. And he didn't even remember much of it. Just the bar, endless refills and the occasional chat with other drinkers. He vaguely recalled having a heart to heart with some guy at the bar whose wife had left him, or maybe it was his sister? Tylio couldn't remember the details of the story, nor did he remember the man's name. But he had felt slightly less alone talking to him, if only for a few hours. Because talking to a drunk stranger was much easier than talking to Arna. Arna had all sorts of ideas in her head about what he was doing, when all she had to do was just wait and he would fix things.
When her fingers closed around the rings, he felt a bit of hope swell behind his chest but it was quickly dashed when she handed them back to him once again. A resolute no to his request for more time, and a demand for him to talk to her about what happened. But he couldn't do that. He'd just spent six days doing everything he could to avoid doing that. He looked at her, slightly embittered, watching her turn around and announce that she was going home. The rings burned in his hand, they weighed in his palm like an anchor. Silently, he slid them into his pocket. He felt defeated by the situation, frustrated and still a bit drunk on top of it all. But he wasn't coming after her.
Tylio turned around too, without a word, heading back to the bar where he bought another pint. But all the drinking must have caught up with him, because he was starting to feel sick and by the time 7PM rolled around, he was throwing everything up in an alleyway. He considered going home, briefly considered it, but the thought of having to talk to her about any of this and possibly answer a bunch of questions was horrifying enough to prevent him from doing so. He knew he had to sober up, though. Drinking so much was not something he usually did, and neither was missing six whole days of work. The fact that he'd failed to show up at the office was not his biggest problem, though. He could come up with an excuse for that. Maybe he would tell them he got into an accident.
He spent a while wandering through the streets. Smoking, slowly sobering up. Still trying to come up with an idea for how he was going to show up in a way that was acceptable to him. In the meantime, he was finally getting himself something to eat because now that he was sobering up, he was starting to feel hungry. He was sitting in a deli, digging into some kind of kebab sandwich when the car dealership across the street caught his eye. Almost instantly, it seemed like a way out. Five minutes later he was taking a look inside, allowing the nearest salesman to spin his pitch, before ignoring that pitch entirely and asking about the most expensive model available. He didn't register the glee in the salesman's eyes, it really didn't matter to him. It just mattered that he got her something good. Something shiny and distracting.
The street fell silent, void of his footsteps as she descended into town headed in the vague direction of their apartment. She hoped for a long while he would follow her, walked slowly, waited for the silence to break, and when it didn't she couldn't hold the sob that bubbled up in her chest any longer. She hated when they split apart and curdled like this, like magnets pushing each other away though they were clearly supposed to be with each other. Or was it clear? Perhaps it was just a fairytale she'd told herself for long enough she'd started to believe it as s truth. Perhaps they'd never meant to be more than the explosive lust of their first year together. Perhaps she was never meant to say yes to those rings that felt now like pieces of herself missing.
By the time she made it home she'd also made up her mind. Whilst Tylio was god knows where, drinking himself into another six days of oblivion perhaps, Arna packed a suitcase. And then unpacked it. Packed it again once more. She sat at the edge of their bed a long time, staring at the shelves of books and trinkets, their life. She picked her cuticles bloody, the toe of her boot kicking against the now half-packed suitcase laid out on the floor of their bedroom. A small pile of books lay beside it - gifts from him she'd half made up her mind to leave behind though she had not yet made up her mind to leave for good. She pretended she had, lied to herself that she was only taking a rest and saying her goodbyes, though she was listening for the familiar creak of their front door, the sound of his keys landing into their usual spot and chipping another piece off the stained glass bowl they landed in. When none of it came, she packed up the suitcase again and dragged it into the hallway, her books left behind in a neat pile on her side of the bed.
She poured herself a scotch and lit a cigarette in the kitchen, stared out onto the street a little while longer. When the cigarette stung her fingertips she found herself digging through their kitchen drawers for a piece of paper, her hand shaky and her usually neat hand fuzzing up as she wrote out a message she'd never wanted to write.
I love you. I'm sorry. Maybe we were never meant to be... - A
They'd been down this path and she was getting tired fighting. When she reached for the door, the imprint of her rings was still clear on the pale flesh of her finger.
