I drive to Fells. I park my car next to Hers. In that parking lot we sat in for so long one night, debating where to go. What to do. As some Hispanic guy vomited a few yards away. Over and over again onto the sidewalk.

I park my car there.

And there are still other odd characters on the walk to the coffee shop. The child walking around in jeweled high heel shoes. The homeless man digging through the ashtray atop a garage can for unfinished cigarettes. The girl arranging coins in a particular order on the front steps of a closed store. Her boyfriend standing beside her, waiting. As if he's waiting for her to finish tying her shoe.

I walk past them. Get to the coffee shop. The barista asks what she can get me. I ask for Her. I ask to see Her.

She's in the bathroom cleaning toilets.

I wait. Circle the shop. Browse through the drink case. Look over the muffins and pastries.

Then She appears. With a spray bottle and a roll of paper towels. She appears.

And for the first time in a few days I feel at ease. I feel calm.

She makes me a drink with six shots of espresso. It's called the Jitter Bug.

I drink it as I sit and watch Her roll garbage receptacles to the curb. As She wipes off the counter tops.

As She makes me smile.

I stop by a friend's on the way home from Columbia. After I've rock climbed for the first time in two months. After I've sat with a loved one over pizza and root beer and discussed where our lives are headed. How they're dividing.

But I stop by a friend's. He sits at the kitchen table, playing with his iPad. I pull up a chair.

We start with light conversation. Jobs. Living situations. Weekend vacations.

But then he turns to me. He leans toward me in his chair. Pushes the iPad aside. Looks into me.

He tells me about positivity. About exuding it into the world. About embracing it in any circumstance. Standing by it when it stands alone. Fighting for it when it's outnumbered.

His girlfriend enters in a white bathrobe and rests an elbow on his huge shoulder. A roommate walks over and stands in the door frame of the kitchen. They watch as I sit and absorb wisdom. Take in the gifts he is giving. They observe how deeply I'm processing this information. Whether I'm worthy of such things.

This is me putting positivity into the world, he concludes. This is me passing it onto you.

This is him being a good friend, his girlfriend adds.

I thank him. I don't know how many times I thank him. I offer some sort of reimbursement, but he refuses. I offer my hand and he shakes it. I don't know how many times I shake his hand.

I stand and continue to spew gratitude. Everyone smiles and wishes for the best.

I move backwards toward the door awkwardly. Saying parting phrases and thanking and thanking.

He heads downstairs with his girlfriend. The roommate sinks back into the kitchen.

They've done what they could.

The rest is up to me.

Ok. So how to deal with this now?

How to deal with the wrenching nausea pushing up my throat? How to deal with the pressure squeezing my intestines dry? How to deal with the spasm shooting down my jawline?

How to deal with this pain? This distress? This encompassing sense of anguish?

This wound. This wound. This wound.

I'm no gentleman.

Grizzy Bear appropriately plays from the speakers across the hall. How appropriate this all is.

The incessant twitch of my foot. My sweaty palms. My empty stomach that's been ripped apart.

How utterly appropriate.

And the weather's been so beautiful lately. Such splendid days.

Sent from my iPhone

A part of me is missing. Maybe multiple parts. Maybe a whole section. I'm just not sure.

And I don't know what the significance of these parts were. I don't know what purpose they served or what tasks they carried out. I don't know why or where they existed.

All I know is their absence. All I feel is their absence. The lack of them. The space that now resides within me.

The space that feeds off attention. The space that beckons me to fall in. The space that continuously reminds me that I destroyed something. That I took the power I have, that I made the decision, of my own free will, the conscious decision, that I raised my hand and crashed it down on something. That I caused death. That I am capable of such a thing. That I am just as horrid as I always feared.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

I just need a little time to make things right. Just a little time.

My words have never meant less.

I want to write of Her smile. I want to see Her smile. It's all I want. It's all that needs to happen. It's all I need.

But I sit across from Her in One World Cafe and watch as She slowly scoops a few black beans and an olive from Her vegan quesadilla onto Her fork, then stops.

The motion ceases.

And all of a sudden there are tears streaming down Her cheeks. They stream down and drip onto the green button down She's wearing. They make dark circles on Her green button down.

I tell Her to look at me. That things will get better from here. That the worst is over.

But the tears are relentless. They form and fall with such ease. With such efficiency.

The waitress approaches and slows as she realizes what's taking place. That she's walking into something painful.

I try to grin at her. I don't know what expression I manage. Something strained and pitiful, I'm sure.

She asks if I'm finished and I nod my head. Throw my napkin on the remaining tortilla chips. She takes my plate, but leaves the quesadilla sitting before Her. With the black beans and olive still on the fork. With the tears still falling.

With me still praying for that smile.

I kill myself. I do this throughout the afternoon. Into the evening. Into the night. Into the early hours of the morning.

I kill myself.

Not deliberately. Not so. It just happens. Just as the rain falls atop my gray, worn hat as I stand, soaked, before Her Chevy Blazer. As Her ignition runs and She sits sobbing, pounding on the steering wheel, telling me how She can't leave because She's too worried about me. Too concerned for my well-being.

Goddamn.

Funny how, minutes before, She pushed past me when I tried to dissuade Her from leaving my room. Tried to convince Her to stay. Tried to make things better.

Oh well, okay.

So after standing there. Glancing up at the sky as it pours down on me. Rains down on me. Pounds me down.

She coaxes me into returning indoors. She persuades me to do so.

But it's all a trap. I realize this far too late. When I'm in my room with my housemates eagerly staring at me for some rationale. For some composition.

But I can't give it to them. I can't give them anything.

So I leave. I venture out into the storm. Into the treachery of the night. I go out. I welcome it.

What awful ideas. What horrid notions. What foolish ideologies.

Let's hope I forget these moments. Let's hope I forget me.

Let us hope.

The parrot squawks from downstairs as sunlight peeks through the blinds. The air conditioner pushes the smell of stale smoke throughout the room. Her Chihuahua's warm body is curled against my leg, under the blankets.

A door opens in the hallway, uttering a drawn creak into the morning's silence. Brisk footsteps make their way to the bathroom and the turn of a lock follows.

I lay, as I always lay, staring up at the ceiling fan. At the blotches of white on the wall from where the blue paint has peeled. At the cobweb in the corner. The pieces of tape that presumably once held something besides themselves.

I should be sleeping. I think of how I should be sleeping. I mull over it. List the reasons I'm awake. The possibilities as to why consciousness currently presides over unconsciousness. Why I'm trapped with open eyes and bombarding theories and scenarios. Why I can't just relax and melt and drain and dry out and sleep.

Why can't I sleep?

I don't settle on a satisfactory cause so, I just lay.

Awake.

Troubled.

Unhappy.

What terrible way to start the day.