Minutiae

I thought it would last forever, that I would see that smile on her face every day.

It was a normal day, no different from the previous day or any other day. I woke up, following my morning routine, and went through the usual day. After yet another monotonous day at work, consisting of angry patrons screaming through a minute speaker while my boss forced me to act polite and apologize—followed by a lengthy reminder of how I would not meet my week’s quota—I needed to clear my head.

But even though it was just another day, I decided to do something different. Rather than go out and have a beer with my friends or stay at home—where I would just sit in front of another desk and waste 6 hours of my life—I decided to walk.

I walked in no particular direction and did not care for time pay attention to the time; I wanted just wanted to walk, and I did. After the sun set and my legs grew tired, I returned to the office to pick up my things and leave for the day.

Then, we met. She wore a suit I would later learn to call her special occasion meeting attire and a frown that everyone who worked for our company wore. I had never seen her before, but the company was big, which—at any other point of time—would have made it impossible for us to meet. And although I refused to believe in destiny, it felt as if it were meant to be.

I made a joke, my desire’s manifestation to turn that frown. It worked. After a small chat, we parted and I did not see her for a week. I did not know her name and she did not know mine, but I never stopped thinking about her. I was obsessed. I needed to see her again.

Exactly seven days after our first meeting, I took another walk, hoping to catch her on her way out again. She smiled again on that day. She was the seventh, my lucky number Seven. Somehow, meeting her turned me spiritual. I believed in numerology. She was the seventh and the one. Yet, it all changed in a single year.

She laughed at my jokes. I thought we were perfect, but I was wrong. I made her cry in the end. I wish I could say it was something big, that I had been unfaithful or that there had been some form of abuse. It was nothing like that. It was the small things. I had run away from them for so long, but they ultimately caught up and ruined my life, and I hurt her.

It began with a promotion, one of the happiest moments of her life. I shared her feelings; I loved to see her smile, so I made it known. We celebrated and thought the night would never end. I took her into the city, spent the little cash I had, and bought the most expensive bottle of wine I could afford. But, the little things, those little fuckers, caught up to me.

I had been working in that office for five years. I worked myself to death, attempting to win more costumers while putting up with an incompetent boss, all in an endeavor to rise in the ranks. I did not. I failed. My efforts and sacrifices, they did not matter. They were just wasted moments I could have had with her. For many months, the stress took a voice—that of self-hatred and pain—reminding me of how I would never achieve anything, reminding me of how I had failed her.

The anger, regret, and weakness, paired with the celebration and the Champaign, turned to desperation. That night, I left her in bed. She seemed so happy. So, I drove to reflect; I drove drunk.

When I met her, I thought she would never stop laughing, that we would always be together. I was wrong. The small things tore us apart.

I lay in bed that night, unable to speak much. She sat by me, a weak smile holding her together. I told her a joke, the very same one I said on the night we met. I made her cry before I left.