Bacardi, Marinara, and You
Bacardi Love (SrJ's Rendition)
Artist: SrJ Is DeD
We call it a movie night, though the television merely plays muted colors across the ceiling. I watch the way your sneakers remain carelessly kicked off by the entryway, the laces tangled in a knot you never bother to undo. You pour yourself a mix of rum and cola, tracing the rim of the cup with your thumb. When you finally look up, the shadows gathered in the corners of your eyes seem thicker than the darkness outside. I don't ask what you're hiding behind that gaze. Instead, the space between my shoulder and yours subtly shrinks, and the heavy wind rattling the windowpanes simply ceases to exist. We sit entirely in this quiet vacuum, fueled by the sharp bite of Bacardi and the temporary heat of a shared room.
"A radio dial turned just slightly off frequency."
Then, three weeks later, the routine evaporates. It doesn’t end with a slammed door or a grand declaration, but rather a slow fading out, like a radio dial turned just slightly off frequency. You had your fun. I find myself standing in the grocery store aisle on a Tuesday evening, staring at a jar of marinara sauce, realizing with a dull thud that I no longer need to buy enough to feed two people at two in the morning. The half-empty bottle of rum sits pushed to the back of my pantry shelf. It rests there like a quiet monument to a habit that was abruptly canceled before it could solidify into anything resembling a real life.
I do not pour the bottle down the drain. Instead, I wipe down the kitchen counters until the granite is entirely streak-free. I sort through the daily mail, place the utility bills in a neat stack, and fold my cotton shirts into identical squares. The days move forward in a perfectly ordinary, unbroken rhythm. Yet, beneath the surface of these mundane tasks, a quiet antenna remains raised, tuned to a frequency that might never broadcast again. I keep the porch light switched on. I leave the phone resting face-up on the coffee table. I just sit on the edge of the sofa, watching the streetlamps outside blink against the dark pavement, giving the night all the time it needs.
A Morning Without Unread Messages
I woke up to the sound of the garbage truck groaning down the avenue. The sun was already casting long, harsh rectangles across the floorboards, illuminating the empty space by the door where your shoes used to be. I picked up my phone from the nightstand; the screen remained completely black. Walking into the kitchen, I took the nearly finished bottle of rum from the pantry and finally poured the remaining liquid down the stainless steel sink. The smell of alcohol rose sharp and sweet for a bare second, then washed away with a quick turn of the faucet. I tied my running shoes, double-knotting the left one just as I always do, and stepped out into the crisp, indifferent morning air, leaving the front door unlocked for a moment longer than strictly necessary.
Footprints Leading Away
Bruno Major — "Nothing"
We spent hours just watching the ceiling, proving that doing absolutely nothing was the most honest thing we ever shared.
José González — "Heartbeats"
Some memories are like glass—sharp, clear, and capable of cutting through the quietest part of a Tuesday afternoon.
Cavetown — "This Is Home"
I keep rearranging the furniture, trying to find the version of this room that doesn't feel so incredibly empty without you.
Clairo — "Bubble Gum"
It’s the small, lingering traces that catch you off guard—the way a certain song still tastes like a secret we never quite finished.
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