Detritus is what is left. It's a "product of disintegration," according to the Bible. Detritus, for me, is all of these shopping bags littering my floor. Packed up by him and filled with my clothes, my makeup, my books. I can't open them. I know my two good dresses are in there -- I have to trust that they are -- but I can't open the bags and look inside. I'll only remember where they belonged in his closet.
Distraction is another component: It's cranked-up music (a lot of Tool lately) or conversation or drinks or general loudness or quips. It's the bartender from Friday night. And Saturday night. It's opening a bottle of wine now, at 5 p.m., because I just can't sit with the feelings I'm having.
Labels: embarrassing sincerity