Page 71 of Compassion

And considering the fact that no one wants to fucking hire me, I welcome the project to keep me distracted from the bleak truth that I’m fucking hopeless. Not worth the goddamn ink I spill on the applications or paper they’re printed on. I wish I could say some shit like this is all because I’m being picky about pay or position. I wish I fucking had that type of luxury. But I don’t. I’ve applied for everything I possibly can from custodial staff at the gym to loading dock supervisor at Crack That. I haven’t gotten a single. Fucking. Hit. Jaye keeps saying these things take time. Her fucking optimism is obnoxiously infectious. It’s how we ended up living together in the first place, remember?

“I can’t wait ‘til it’s totally complete!” She gleefully exclaims as though she didn’t hear a word I said. “Can we paint quotes on the wall or is that too much? Should I go simpler? Maybe justframedquotes?” A large gasp escapes during our stepping into the entry way. “What about if I hire McCoy to come over and do an elaborate mural?! He does that type of shit on the side, you know.”

“Can we hold off on contracting myonlyjob out to another man for a little longer?” I playfully tease while we begin ascending the stairs. “Not sure my ego can survive that fucking hit.”

My girlfriend giggles and squeezes my hand in support. “Whatever you do in there is going to be amazing. I just know it.”

We slowly climb towards the top passing framed photos of us placed staggered on the wall.

Her idea. Which…I won’t lie. I fucking love it. I love seeing photos of us together smiling or laughing or kissing whether I’m coming or going. I fucking love that our…relationship is the first thing you see when you step into our house. Our world. Our…sanctuary. Having our pictures on display proves that her saying this place is ours, isn’t all talk. Jaye is definitely a woman not afraid of actions and as someone who isn’t the best with words, I hope my own are reflecting my shared mindset. What Idon’tlove is the empty hook that’s waiting for my dog tags. The last thing I want is that fucking haunting horror among my happier moments. She thinks they deserve respect and celebration despite the unfortunate circumstances while I’m not so quickly sold on that death before dishonor bullshit I once was.

Our strolling down the opposite hall of my bathroom – fuck, I can hardly believe I have my own bathroom – exposes two different stacks of boxes for explaining. I start by pointing to the left. “Those are filled with Chris’s personal belongings. Awards. Accommodations. Degrees. Framed milestones.” My free finger is tossed the other direction. “Those are filled with supplies you might wanna look through for yourself or donate to a local school. Pens, paper, stationary, and equipment – like his fax machine, copier, computer monitors, ect.”

As we creep closer to the room at a very slow pace, she inquires, “Did you find anything more personal? Like something I would wanna keep? Like old photos of us? Or a trinket that reminded him of me? Maybe the receipt I had framed from our first date? I have a box filled with that sort of stuff and just wanna make sure it all stays together.”

Fuck me. This is uncomfortable.

I can barely keep my voice from straining itself during the answering. “No.”

“Oh.”

Fuck, that sound hurts.

And I’m not even the one who’s clearly feeling discarded here.

Unsure of how to properly comfort Jaye about her dead fiancé who clearly didn’t give a fuck about her like she believed he did, I do my best to force on a polite grin and redirect her attention to something more positive. “I really like the purple accent wall. Goes really well the gray.”

Her warm smile returns yet is cut short by a huge gasp the instant we’re in the room. “This place looks incredible!”

Grateful to have Jaye happy again, I release her hand to allow her the opportunity to freely explore the space. “You picked it.”

“You painted it.”

I casually cross over to the desk, the only piece of furniture in the room at this point and rest my ass on the edge.

“And you polished the floor.” Her open palm dramatically slaps her chest. “Look at it! I can basically see myself in it.”

The complimenting receives an amused headshake.

“You gonna do the lighting next?” She nonchalantly walks the space, fingers caressing territory I get the feeling she’s never really been granted the chance to in the past. “You think the fixture I picked out will match or should we exchange it and get something different? Something louder? Bolder? More subtle?”

“I think you gotta trust that gut instinct of yours about shitbesidespeople.”

She sassily spins on her heels to shoot me a teasing glare.

“Now, what do you think of your desk?”

Jaye joyfully struts over, stare swiftly sweeping the strange piece of furniture, “It looks even better than it did on the display!”

Remind me to warn others that this fucking thing may look like a dream come true for the occupant but is a goddamn nightmare for the person building it.

Her fingertips lightly run the length of it while humming to herself. “I can’t wait to pick out a chair.”

“Can it be a little less complicated than the desk, please?”

She lightly snickers and while circling around to check out the drawers on the other side. Her scrutinizing suddenly comes to a stop, informing me she found the small surprise I left inside the top one. Rather than immediately remove the framed photo of the two of us, she simply meets my gaze. “How did you get this?”

“I know how to use our printer.”

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