The man stared straight ahead, walking with a meaningful purpose and rigid gait. He forced his shoulders back and chin high, despite feeling small and helpless. He took a deep breath in sharp staccato, hands trembling and heart pounding. His posture efforts were rewarded modestly with the bright shining sun basking his face. What some would find pleasant felt to him like a spotlight in a show, the world a jeering audience. Suddenly, he was knocked laterally, his shoulder tossed back as he twirled forward desperately regaining his balance. His eyes met the glare of a short woman about his age as he sheepishly looked up. His mouth opened, dry and full of hesitation, unable to stammer a reply. He broke into a run to pass her, desperate to escape the confrontation as he often found himself doing. 

As a matter of fact, almost exactly a year ago he had been doing exactly that. He’d convinced himself that his run home from her apartment that early foggy morning was because the bus line was delayed. Or out of terror from the fresh mangled corpse of an adult racoon lying on the sidewalk in Central Park. He always had these reasons, he told himself, as he was an inquisitive and skeptical man, and thus required a university degree in cognitive dissonance to properly function. However, this time he had lost the battle, since now he knew he was really running from her. This time he was unable to convince himself otherwise. 

He chuckled to himself at the absurdity of what he had to do, as he regained his stride and rounded the corner to Jenny’s apartment building. He had done this several times over the last few years, yet unlike anything else, it became no easier with repetition. He slowly raised his finger, eyes locked on the small metal bump labeled 2C next to the thick glass door. His hand remained still, hovering next to the panel. His body froze, and he quickly descended into a fantasy where this could all be over before it began. A sleek black Porsche pulling up to the curb in front of the building. A suave guy emerging with tinted designer glasses announcing “your ride, Charlie”. He suddenly had the thought that it was irrational to fantasize about someone else coming to support him, when he always failed by himself.

Charlie snapped back to reality from a loud click, gasping as he swiveled his head to the origin of the sound. An elderly woman stared back at him, holding the glass door open wide “Is everything ok?” Said the woman. This time, Charlie blurted “I sure wished it was”, a reply filled with condescension, as if this woman’s mere presence had annoyed him deeply. Puzzled, the woman slowly descended the short stairway to the street, careful to avoid his eyes as she passed. Charlie was a well-built handsome man, his tall frame usually dressed elegantly and with a forced confidence. He occasionally had a stubborn tendency to hold others to the unreasonable standards of which he held himself. Charlie wasn’t quite sure what inspired him with resolve in that moment as he pressed the button, instantly regretting the decision.

Seconds passed as if it were an eternity as he stared through the glass. Luckily his action was met with silence, he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Suddenly, his heart lurched in his chest as his ears perked up to the sound of the door buzzing loudly. Charlie gulped and made his way to the door and pushed harder than he needed to. It opened with a click. He entered and his eyes were met with the familiar white marble walls and absurdly ostentatious golden chandelier. As he rounded the corner to his right, he glanced at the tall glass vase of dead brown roses sitting atop a brown bench by the elevator. Every time he called the elevator he thought he should replace them with some fresh, vibrant ones. He realized he probably should have replaced them long ago but never did. The flowers were familiar and comforting, albeit drab, but without the responsibility of replacing them with something new just to wither and fade all over again. He shared the same sentiment as the tenants of the building. Charlie thought to himself, oddly melancholy, that this would be the last time he would care about those roses. And that stupid gaudy chandelier.

The elevator opened in front of him. The doors slid apart, revealing her figure in a dramatic entrance. He had prepared for this diligently. He planned his words and mannerisms meticulously the night before as if rehearsing. Yet, he could not stifle the smile he fought helplessly to suppress. His lips automatically tugged upward as if by an unstoppable, supernatural force, conditioned deep within him. She met his gaze, her downcast eyes empty and lips expressionless. Jenny dreaded this moment as much as he did, yet much like those roses in the lobby, she knew their love had withered in an eerily similar way. Tears now streamed down Charlie’s face, and he brought her to his chest without abandon, squeezing her tight.

“Sorry” said Charlie, instinctively. “For what?” He thought. Often in their arguments he found himself apologizing for things out of his control, as if her emotions were his responsibility. That word became more meaningless to him each time he used it, yet he could never cease using it. Jenny slowly raised her head to meet his and could barely manage the words, bursting into tears “me too, Charlie”. Both were much the same in this way, but that fact only adds to the tragedy. He unfurled the script in his mind. He had so much to say to her, but his body had already turned, carefully pushing her away. “Goodbye Jenny” he said. Why was this all he could manage? He found his feet hastily walking towards the exit despite desperately wanting to turn back. Feel the warmth of her breath. Her lips on his. He cursed silently at how twisted life had become. Now that she was gone he wanted her more than ever.

He descended the worn concrete steps of the building, not daring to look at those desiccated roses. His face went slack, eyes motionless with regret. He began sauntering down the street, his legs heavy with regret. He wanted nothing more than to break into the welcome distraction of a full sprint, yet he forced himself to endure this pain in full force. His shoulders hunched and head tilted downward, posture completely unlike it had been mere minutes ago. His fist tightened as he sauntered forward, no destination in mind. He deserved this and he would suffer it. His heart lay weary in his chest. He was addicted to falling in love, not love itself. He hated the consequences of breaking a heart, as he always did, yet it was in his very nature to relentlessly seek out fresh flowers.