The Game

She had been gone for months, and he still found her shit everywhere. A brush behind the sofa, a jacket wedged into the trunk of his car, a letter - he burned it all. Fuck it. He was in a state of suspended animation. His mind was lost in a labyrinth of whys and whatifs. And the big questions. When had she decided? How many times had he told her he loved her? How many times had she said it back without meaning it?

The emptiness of the apartment was crushing. Silence and solitude pressed down upon him. Old memories crept along his spine, plucking the vertebrae like harp strings. His phone rang sometimes, but he never answered it. He knew it wouldn't be her. He didn't want to talk to anyone.

He played albums he didn't hear. He watched movies he didn't see. He swam in half-memory and coerced confusion. Somewhere, he knew, people were smiling. Children played on slides and sent cries of happiness into the liquid sky. He did not belong anymore. He was no longer playing the game.