When the fights escalated to the point of screaming, distance and time helped. Their therapist called it “emotional flooding;” the moment in an argument when you pass the point of reason because you’re seeing red. Now, when he felt emotionally flooded, he’d just slip on a pair of shoes, ballpark an estimated return time, and head out the door.
He was nearly ten blocks from their apartment when he hit the intersection of 19th and Valencia. Making a right, he passed a shop with colorful backpacks and art supplies in the window. Since he wasn’t headed anywhere in particular, he turned on his heel and crossed the threshold. Inside, rows of fanny packs and duffles lined the walls – color-blocked from floor to ceiling in chunks of magenta, beige, and other hues left-of-center for the sake of fashion. Running through the center of the store was a banquet table piled high with plain journals and cheeky activity books. Walking absently, he ran his fingers across adult coloring books and thought-starters inviting the reader to write “one line a day.” And then, his gaze found its way to the back wall, where he saw it; a typewriter. He thought of the device as “camera-ready” because it looked like a movie prop – almost too pristine for an antiquated relic. The typewriter plopped itself in the center of a mid-century writing desk – occupying space like a pumpkin on a fireplace mantle. Next to it was a cardboard box stacked to the brim with paper. The blank pages, just like everything else in the shop, were arranged by color; one layer resting idly upon another. He noticed a squatty waste bin on the ground, gurgling crumpled fists of discarded paper. He reached down and picked up a pink one that looked aggressively crinkled, like whoever threw it away wanted it to suffer. In faded blue-black ink, it read, “Hi dad I misss you everyday & wish we had more timee togethe.r”
A sudden wave of shame overcame him, so he crushed the note between his palms and returned it to the bin. “I’m trespassing,” he thought.
He wasn’t a particular good typist. In fact, most texts were followed with a correction and an asterisk. He’d also never used a typewriter before, but he knew each movement should be firm and intentional. “What would I say?,” he wondered. “Do I have anything to say?” Two pens stood crossed in a yellow, ceramic cup – cracked around the edges like chapped lips. He grabbed a pen and scribbled down a few test sentiments. “I’m sorry,” he wrote. “You’re my best friend.” “There should be more time.” “I didn’t mean it when I said you were an asshole because you’re not an asshole.” “You’re so beautiful, and I’m fucking this up.” Finally, he grabbed a page the color of eggshell and fed it through the machine. When he finished typing his message, he folded it up and tucked it away.
Outside on the sidewalk, the sun was warm – uncluttered by the everpresent clouds hanging in the San Francisco sky. He turned left, making his way back to their apartment where he would present the note as a peace offering. He knew it wasn’t enough to repair the damage between them; a collapsing dam overrun with an ocean. But he believed in his heart the waters of an emotional flood will always recede.
He reached into his pocket and ran his finger across the creases of the page emblazoned with the words, “Life is a nightmare. The world is corrupt. But you make it livable. I love you so much.”
