Hello/Goodbyes and Refrigerator Doors

I've been holding the refrigerator door open for the past couple of minutes just staring inside, not really searching for anything in particular. I was trying to lull myself into some sort of numbness in the momentary (and sudden) cold of the refrigerator air and warmth of the orange glow emanating from inside. There were jars of half-eaten Spanish sardines, almost-empty milk cartons, loaves of bread barely touched, eggs sitting nicely on egg trays, the essential frozen leftover pizza, a couple of expired films. And a number of things I wouldn't dare mention (well, because I couldn't even identify them).

"Why do you do that?" The voice startles me, but only because we had been silent for the past hour. I snap out of my trance. I don't know what exactly she was referring to. Me holding open the refrigerator door, or me throwing everyone else's lives away (and my own)?

Either way, I answered: "I don't know." And I didn't. I got the bread and checked for molds. Clear. Two slices went into the oven toaster, set for 3 minutes. I drank straight out of the milk carton, emptied it, and put it back in the ref.

"Well, stop it." She was on the sofa, twirling a loose strand of hair around her fingers. I loved the way she did that. Her legs were propped up on the coffee table. I didn't really mind, but it was automatic the way I said things.

"Put your feet down." I knew she wouldn't.

"No."

"Okay."

She sighed. "At least talk to me properly, Sam." I sighed. I stopped and turned to look at her. Her eyes were questioning, even maybe concerned, and a little annoyed. I didn't know what to say. Well, I knew. It's just that I didn't really want to talk. I didn't want to talk to her. I mean, I did. But not now. "I don't know what's going on in that head of yours anymore. I don't know you anymore. Not as much. Not as much as I should."

"I know, I know." I let out an unsteady breath. She didn't get this side of me. I don't either. "I just.."

"You just?" She was impatient. She had been patient for the past, non-talking hour. But now she was just impatient.

"I just need to get away." At least I think that's what I need. "I just feel sick and fed-up of waking up and sleeping without accomplishing anything or being anyone for anyone. I just feel sick of people - of people in general. Every time someone talks, I just imagine how fucking obnoxious they are! I mean, they probably aren't. But my mind blows things out of proportion and I don't know. I.. I... Shit, Jean. I don't know." My hands are on my head and I'm pulling at my hair strands. "I don't know." I repeat.

I fall down on the sofa beside her. Silence. I sneak in a couple of careful glances towards her. She was just staring straight ahead; I couldn't read her. She brings out a cigarette and lights it. She takes a long drag before she looks at me.

"You're running away from people." She finally says. She states. She knows I know that. She moves her hands towards the ash tray and kills the cigarette (puffed once!). I look at her funny. "I stopped smoking. But, you -- you're too much to handle."

"Oh." I didn't know what to say to that. I probably should have been offended.

She starts again. "You're running away from people, Sammie. But what you need are people! We're here for you. Fred's here for you. Hannah's here for you." I'm here for you, was her silent message.

"I know, Jean. Of course I know that."

"Really? You know?" She was becoming agitated. She gets the cigarette back from the ashtray and attempts to straighten it with shaking fingers. She gives up and gets a new one from the pack. "It sure doesn't seem like it! We call and we invite you out, but you never reply. You never call back. Not even a text. An offline message? A fucking e-mail!"

"I just.."

She stood up, and put her hands up in exasperation. "You need to get away! I know! God!" She was pacing. "Did you ever think of how selfish you're being? We need you, you know. We miss you. Fred misses you. Hannah misses you!" I miss you. She didn't say it, but I heard it. She was never too great at expressing her feelings. She went by with unsaid words, and she depended on us to get it. She falls back down on the sofa and looks at me with such intensity. "Come back to us, please." Come back to me.

I was getting frustrated because I wanted, really, to go back to them. But I couldn't. There's some part of me that's just unready, and I couldn't face the consequences of that. "I can't."

I stood up and got my car keys. I needed to get away.

"You're leaving?" I know she didn't mean it as a question. "Fine," she says. "This is the last time I'm going after you, you hear? Fuck you, Sam."

"I'll come back." I meant to the apartment. I meant, to them. I meant, to her.