Friday, January 4, 2013

The Sound of Silence

For the first time in a year, my apartment is quiet - the only sound is little swishes as a fan circulates air. I had to make an emergency return from my mother's house. It was late, the moon high in sky, and after I unlocked the door, I brushed my teeth and went straight to bed. Since I was only staying for the night (I'll be heading back to her house soon), I decided to leave my three cats with her.

This morning was miraculous. I didn't wake up to an eight-pound heat machine on my chest; didn't watch my glass of apple juice with a wary eye - no fear of reaching paws aiding gravity; didn't have lithe limbs darting in-between my legs as I walked from room to room; didn't count heads after closing my pantry; didn't hid headphones and chargers after using them; wore black without feeling self-conscious; for a couple hours it was just me. Just me.

With a smile and strut I headed to center of town to complete some errands. First was the post office, then the bank and finally the ophthalmologist to order more contacts. Nothing stressful happened. The mail carrier was friendly, the teller and I joked and the receptionist entered my order without a hitch. The walk home was uneventful. All in all, it was like every other day in the city for me. Except when I open the door to my apartment I was greeted with that blessed silence I had relished in earlier.

Since moving into my place, every single time I opened the door at least one cat would greet me. It's usually either Cinnamon waiting by the door or Meowington resting in their bed next to the coat closet. I would say hello to whatever kitty choose to greet me, take my coat off, walk into the bedroom and pet the other two. But today, there was no one. And while my heart didn't pang from the emptiness, I did feel a taste of the loneliness I've been fleeing from since my first break-up. A glimpse into my future if I can't find someone to love me.

At 22, I know I shouldn't worry too much about love in relation to the rest of my life, but come March I will have gone a whole year without going on a date. I know I'm romantically challenged - some it is my fault, some of blame falls on the men of this world and some of the problem is caused simply because life is life. But I'm so fucking afraid that despite surrounding myself with cats, for the next 60 years I'm going to be greeted by darkness and stale air. Alive in my crypt.