Air

Melanie Bolla

The apartment feels like a stifling hot pillow stuffed down to your feet in the back seat of a car, yet somehow, the girl you share the place with went to sleep hours ago. Her damn clock that she hung up in the living room keeps ticking. Every single second. God, you’re alone. But it’s not the loneliness that bothers you. It’s the way you can’t think and don’t want to take another breath inside this apartment.
So rummage through your bag and find your keys. Don’t make any coherent decision, but know that you’re leaving. Take the three crumpled dollars you left in the pocket of yesterday’s jeans. Lock the door.
It smells like outside.
Now think ‘bike.’ Find it where you left it. Feet meet pedals and you’re off.
The air is nice, you think. It rushes past and pushes your unruly hair back, away from your face. Hit the brakes. Stop sign. Go.
Your clouded mind feels free, released. The only thought you let percolate through is the vague concept of grass. Let it get clearer: a park. Turn left and let your muscle memory take you there.
No, don’t get off your bike. Bike past this place, because it’s haunted. Just like your old bed sheets. It’s haunted by a memory-reel of whispers and interlaced fingers and wide-eyed vulnerability. You think you might lie in the grass, but really you just wish he were here. He could have talked about anything and you would have listened forever. But he doesn’t let you listen anymore.
Let yourself make some sound: a sigh, a whimper. Stare at the black sky. He’s decided. And you’re broken and it’s his fault, but you want to blame yourself because you don’t want to blame him.
Cry. Let the hot air dry your wet cheeks and watery eyes. Bike faster. Go somewhere else. Anywhere, because it doesn’t matter if you get lost. Play a game: Left or Right. Don’t think, just pick one.
Left.
Left again.
Right.
Left then right.
Okay, this time wait to see which one you like better.
Oh, definitely left.
There’s no one else out here and you’re still not lost. Not even a little bit.
But your cheeks are dry and you can breathe. You can breathe now. Long, warm streams of air through your nose. Your bike pedals turn more slowly and you breathe and breathe. Turn that bike around, because it’s okay now.

So, you bike home and eat spoonfuls of Nutella as you sit cross-legged on your bed, thinking about the old friends you haven’t seen since elementary school, the sound of Legos, and your little sister’s long-dead hamster. Your sister is fast asleep and three hundred miles away, but she understands.
All the crying and screaming and whispering and laughing replays through your head, and you sit there, waiting until you will let yourself fall asleep in your new sheets.