Heard a banging on the door
Relentless
And strong
I peaked through the door hole
Someone who I thought was long gone
Took a step back in a panic
How could he be back?
Another bang on the door
Nearly gave me a heart attack
“Open up! I know you’re there” he screamed
“I know you’ve missed me!”
“No!” I reply
“Sure you have! Now let me inside”
He pushes on the door
Over and over again
I crouch down and cover my ears
Hoping for it all to end
One more push
And he’s finally inside
I run and try to find a place to hide
I feel a strong grip
That pulls me by the hand
Flipping me around
In his arms I land
“I’ve missed you”
He leans in uncomfortably close
There’s tears in my eyes
And a lump in my throat
“Did you really think that I would disappear forever?”
He asked
“Look at us. Together again at last!”
“I don’t need you! I never needed you!”
I proclaimed
“The moment you left the better person I became”
He laughed
“Is that so?”
I yank myself free of his grip
“Yes and now it’s time for you to go.”
“But...”
“But nothing!
This chapter is done.
And a new part of this story
Has begun
Your presence is not necessary
This freedom Ive obtained is not temporary
Leave!
And take your toxic atmosphere with you
And believe me when I say
We are through!”

I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster."  The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.