#post-covid

“If we had been closer in age maybe it would’ve been fine.”

That was the moment that set you off. It was like a match was lit and dropped into a brush pile doused in kerosene. It simultaneously made you want to rip your skin from your bones and scream in agony, but also retaliate towards the older man standing in front of you…so that’s exactly what you did.

“You burned down your family’s farm. You killed your sister and your mom, and you ruined your own life just like you fucking ruined me! You told me you loved me. You took my virginity. You told me you wanted to marry me and now you’re saying our ages are a problem? That’s bullshit, Stan and you know it.”

“Fuck you. Fuck you. Get the fuck out of my house. We’re done. Go find you some guy your age that can drink to tolerate your batshit crazy ass, because my body has built too high of a tolerance to even be able to get buzzed enough to be around you. I’d rather go back to using my hand on the nightly basis than listen to you scream and cry at me like a fucking kid.”

You held it together despite internally wanting to crumble. You wanted to fall to your knees and sob and beg him to stay and beg him to love you, because despite everything, you still loved him.

“Fine.” You walked over to the counter and grabbed your belongings and your keys before turning to head out of the door. You then turned around and faced him, “That’s the funny part about all of this, Stan. My age is a problem now? Cool, fine, because you know what? Years will pass and I’ll get older…but your little girlfriends, side pieces, and fuckbuddies? They’ll all stay my age.”

With that, you walked out and slammed the door, heading to your car and exiting his driveway quicker than you’d ever pulled out of a location in your life. You tried to hold your tears in as you drove, but they started quickly pouring out and didn’t stop until you found yourself sitting on the floor of the shower in your apartment hours later

The water falling from the shower head had started running cold a long while ago. You couldn’t tell if you were still shaking from the tears or from the cold drops that fell onto your bare skin, but you pulled your knees in closer to your chest as you sat there overwhelmed by everything. This wasn’t your first fight with Stan. Things were never fully stable. He’d gotten mad at you when you asked him why he dropped your hand and stepped in front of you when a tall woman with black hair and glasses approached him at the class reunion that he’d invited you to.

“You dropped my fucking hand! What am I supposed to do with that?”

“I didn’t even fucking notice. What are you talking about I ‘dropped your hand’?” 

You shuddered again at the memory as it kept playing on in your mind as if you couldn’t shut it off even though you desperately wanted to.

“They are all older than me.”

“But like, what are you talking about?”

“I feel so out of place. You’re the only one that makes people comfortable.”

“You’re making this about you.”

“They won’t even look at me!”

You finally mustered up the strength to stand up, get out of the shower, and wrap yourself in a towel. It was removed the moment you dried off enough to put on your pajamas, consisting of one of Stan’s t-shirts and a pair of athletic shorts. Your heart ached as the cotton fabric went over your head and onto your body, hanging loosely on your frame.

You hadn’t even bothered to tell anyone what’d happened. You hadn’t from the start, so why start now. Your friends would be sympathetic and supportive, but you also knew of some friends, but more so family, that would be telling you ‘I told you so’. 

Your mother had warned you from the beginning, telling you that he had no business being with someone that was young enough to be his daughter regardless of whether or not you were both consenting adults, which had been your main defense all along. He was able to connect with your dad on sports, alcohol, and music and had even made the connection that they might have played each other in football in high school. That thought made you feel a little uncomfortable, but it wasn’t enough for you to see the concerns that even your dad silently harbored about this relationship.

You shook your head, drying the ends of your hair with a towel before curing up to lay down on your side, feeling ashamed and embarrassed that you’d even let this go on for as long as you had. There were so many signs and you’d missed them all, wearing what you could only describe as rose tinted glasses to see the world through the lens of the hope of true love.

You stayed on your side, curled up, until you glanced at the alarm clock to see the time. It was then that you were brought back to a few months prior, naked and curled up on your side in his bed as he pulled you into his chest. You felt dirty and ashamed. It was one thing for you to use your body to stop an argument and to pose a distraction from harsh words and glass bottles being thrown around, but it was another for him to go along with it. You wanted him to not take you up on your offer, coming to you with the proposition to talk about the problem at hand instead of just fucking to forget. The memory made you feel sick to your stomach…they all did.

The only thing that hurt worse than the bad memories were the ones that radiated any glimmer of hope into the spiral of your relationship. You baked cookies together at one in the morning all because you just wanted to. He wrapped his arms around your waist as you mixed the ingredients and got them prepared and hoisted you onto the counter to kiss you while you waited for the oven timer to go off. He told you all about his childhood…from his friends to the farm…information you’d never think of sharing, let alone weaponizing. You told him about yours and how you’d always dreamed of falling madly in love, getting married, and having children as to drop some kind of hint to him. He told you he loved you not even a week later when he’d come over to spend the evening with you, but the kiss that followed tasted of whiskey, planting the seed of doubt in your heart that you’d work hard to push back down every time you said those three words to him.

The good did not outweigh the bad, but your mind couldn’t wrap around the idea that someone could be that kind only to be so cruel. How could someone love you and then destroy you with such simplicity? Unless, they never loved you at all. You shook your head, trying to shake the thought out of the forefront of your mind. That could never be the case, but what if it was?

You were jarred from your thoughts by the sound of not knocking, but pounding on your door. You jumped, unsettled by the noise. You walked to the door, peering through the peephole only to see Stan standing on your doormat, partially slumped over on the door, using his closed fist to pound on the door. He apologized, begging you to answer the door through slurred words all because he loves you and he made a mistake.

You opened the door and Stan all but fell inside, stumbling and grabbing a hold of a coat rack and your arm. Several items fell off of the coat rack as he picked himself up. You rolled your eyes watching him scramble to pick them up out of the floor, almost falling again.

“Just leave it.” You replied coldly.

“N-No, I did this…I fucked it up like I fuck up everything else.” he handed you a beanie and a hoodie and you took it into your arms with a deep sigh of frustration.

His hand landed on a red knit infinity scarf. He picked it up and took a good look at it. “You had this on when we went to see Shelley and mom. I-It matched the flowers.”

You took a hard swallow, pursing your lips, “Yeah…” Your mind went back to the red carnations Stan placed on his sister and his mother’s graves that day. Regardless of his behavior, you couldn’t help but pity him when it came to his family. It was a tragedy and there wasn’t anyone that could deny that.

Once you hung the articles back on the rack, you turned to Stan, who was leaning on the wall for support. He was more than obviously drunk, per usual. You cursed the availability of self-driving cars, but you doubt deep-down that his drunken state would’ve kept him from getting behind the wheel to try and keep you entrapped considering it was something that would ultimately benefit him. Despite his self-deprecating behaviors, Stan was the love of his own life. He was his own number one and there was no one that could knock him out of that position short of the bottle.

You crossed your arms over your chest, “What do you want, Stanley? You told me to get out of your house and that we were done.”

“I-I know…but…I couldn’t…I couldn’t let you leave. I love you, Y/N. I love you and need you, baby.” he slurred, reaching for you. You took a step back and rolled your eyes as he continued, “Alexa told me I needed to stay away from you, but I just can’t. I can’t do that. She told me to stay away from ‘that little girl’ and to find someone my own age, but I told her that you’re a woman and you’re mature. It’s fine. You know that, right? I’m not…I’m not worried about your age.”

You blinked, perplexed by his statements considering what he’d said earlier, “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

“Remember when Kyle said he didn’t know I had a daughter, but it wasn’t my daughter, it was you?”

“Yeah, and I remember your other friend stopping me at the bar telling me I needed to run too.”

The whole reunion felt like a fever dream, but the comments made by Kyle, as well as the man at the bar…a taller man with dark hair and tanned skin who was holding the hand of his husband who also looked at you with deep concern etched onto his features…stuck with you. You knew by their impact that you shouldn’t have let them go, but instead, you forced them to the back of your mind every time they’d reappear. You’d remind yourself that these people no longer knew Stan, because it’d been decades since their school years. The presence of a freshly twenty-something year old on the arm of a fifty-year old was everything an outsider needed to know about Stan Marsh.

“That’s a good idea…let’s run…let’s go to Vegas…let’s get married. I love you and I want you to stay with me.” he begged, this time dropping to his knees.

“Get up, Stan. This is ridiculous.” You said, extending a hand to help him up. He stood back up and walked closer towards you, putting his hands on your waist. Tears were welled up in his eyes and his face was flushed. You couldn’t tell if this was from the heat of the whiskey, emotion, or his history of having a sensitive stomach in times of high stress.

“I'm so sorry.” He leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours. His lips lingered near yours and your chest tightened. Your love for the man in front of you was doing its best to fight off the anger and sorrow you were feeling as if you hadn’t been down this road before. This was a normal occurrence even if it wasn’t in the presence of a potential break up. Every fight ended like this. He’d get drunk, apologize, kiss you, fuck you, and then wake up the next day hungover. The fight would be long since forgotten.

“I can’t do this, Stan.” Your voice cracked, “I love you, but I can’t do this.”

“But you love me.”

“Sometimes love isn’t enough.” You spoke plainly, gently putting your hands on his chest to slowly push him away. Your stomach turned a little, knowing his past history of violence. He’d never hit you, but any nearby object was fair game to be tossed through the air in your general direction. You didn’t trust him not to hit you, and that should’ve been another red flag, but it also went ignored.

“But…”

“You took my virginity when we were both drunk. You lied about my age at the reunion until someone told you there was no way I was almost thirty. You’re basically unemployed. You drink all day and half-ass your job to the point where you lose clients quicker than you make money.” The more you spoke, the more the anger began to rise as you recalled all of the things you’d been ignoring for so long, “You’ve thrown full glass bottles of whiskey at me. You’ve thrown long neck bottles, shot glasses…basically anything you can drink your sorrows away in has been thrown my way on top of your phone, my fucking water bottle…anything with weight to it. You ruined my twenty-first by not showing up to my party and blacking out drunk in your own fucking bedroom, which made my parents hate you…”

“Your parents love me!” The rest of your points going ignored again.

“You really are oblivious as fuck, aren’t you? I’m dying inside, Stan. I can’t fucking doing this anymore. You have ruined me and I don’t know if I’ll ever be myself again. You said if we had been closer in age maybe it would’ve been fine…but I don’t even think you could hold a relationship with someone your own age. If Wendy wasn’t married, you would’ve left me that night and moved on to ruin her too…but I don’t think she would’ve given you the opportunity…because admittedly, she’s not young and fucking stupid like me.” You pursed your lips, taking a breath, “You couldn’t manipulate her the way you do me…the way you did me…because we’re done, Stanley.”

He looked at you, eyes glazed over, his brain taking longer to process what you’d said due to his state of intoxication.

“I loved you and I tried to be there for you. I tried to create a safe space, because fuck, no one’s done it for you for the last fifty some years and I thought you deserved it…but you just took advantage of it.” You said, shaking your head, “I hope one day you find everything you’re missing. I hope you go to rehab, because you need it. I hope you make peace with your father, because you need that too.”

“Fuck Randy. I fucking hate Randy. He’s…”

“He’s your dad and sure he’s fucked up over the years, but it’s not like you’re some saint either. You both have made mistakes. Go to therapy, get your shit together, and go find happiness…with someone who isn’t me…and is closer to your own age.” 

Tears had started to stream down your face rapidly and you hadn’t noticed. He stepped closer and reached up to wipe your tears away. You shook your head, reaching up to wipe them off yourself.

“I’ll go with you out to your car and program it to take you back home, but after that, I don’t want to see you ever again.”

“You don’t mean that.”

You nodded, “I do…and I’d normally say that I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I am.”

“I thought we were made for each other.” he paused, “Maybe another time…in another life?”

You shrugged. The sentiment was nice. It was pleasant to think about, but it was sadly not a reality. It was doubtful that your lives would ever cross again and it was unlikely that he’d change. In another life, maybe, but that wasn’t something you were even sure existed.

“I don’t know, Stan.” You said, wrapping your arms around your midriff.

“I love you.”

You didn’t say anything. You opened the door and motioned for him to follow you. On your way out, the red of the scarf hanging from the coat rack caught your eye. For a brief second, your hand reached up to take it, debating on dropping the knit accessory in the back seat of his car. You knew that this would just enable Stan to try and contact you again and begin this cycle in a never-ending loop like the article of clothing itself.

You wordlessly followed Stan to his car, programming it to drive him back to his home before helping him into his seat and closing the door. You backed up, watching the car start to pull out of the lot and head down the street as he exited your life for good.