Our Separate Ways

Rhetoric’s apartment was in a block between a no-name bodega, (that’s what he called it) and a small laundromat. The locals were a mix of college students in trendy non-prescription glasses and folks with crunchy hair and meth teeth. I was there because he asked me to be there. It was quick, he called me and said, “Stop doing that coffee shop bullshit and come live with me.”

In the morning, he’d wake me with a donut with a tall glass of orange juice and sit on the edge of my bed and talk to me. At night, we’d watch a movie. On weekends we’d lay in bed as something would cook in the crockpot. I was happy.

By the month’s end, I started working at the local Starbucks. Rhetoric had begun teaching art classes at an elementary school. When the leaves changed colors, he arrived home with a bottle of Banker’s Club, and drank it all in less than an hour.

Three months later, we were broke. Rhetoric didn’t have enough for his half of the groceries, and I had resorted to breaking packages of ramen noodles in half.

One night, I asked, “What happened to us?”

“We’re not in college anymore Augustine. We don’t have the luxury of sitting around and talking about our feelings.” He rolled over and remained silent.

It was November when Rhetoric told me that the hot water heater was being replaced and wouldn’t be working for a few days. I had begun washing up in the kitchen. While the large pot of water simmered, I laughed to myself about how the both of us had college…