The Heart Wants What It Wants

My dreamless sleep is interrupted by the chiming of my doorbell. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, and everyone that could possibly visit me should be at work. For the past three days, I haven’t done anything but lie on the couch and watch TV like it’s the last thing I’ll do before I die. Rolling to the side, I pause abruptly when I realise that I’m lying down on the sofa and not my bed. Yesterday, I fell face-first onto the floor after my phone rang during another fitful afternoon sleep. The doorbell rings again. I wait to hope it won’t ring once more, but it does. “Who’s that?” I mumble, groggy and irritable. The chimes turn into knocks on the door. The thudding penetrates deep into my eardrums, and my hands move swiftly to cover my ears. I’m not ready to entertain any visitors. The last one I had invited to my house was the reason for my current disposition. He had left with a piece of me. I stand up, leaving my sculpted imprint on the leather sofa. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying there. Heartbreak can make time an elusive metric. Walking closer to the door, I see a familiar manly frame on the other side of the frosted glass. The man knocks some more. I quicken my pace, eager to address the disturbance.