It’s been a cold, quiet spring. I say that out loud, and you tell me that is has been, that the rain and drop in temperature are unusual for this time of year. If I could bring the words to my lips I would tell you how right you are, that the temperature hasn’t just dropped outside. It’s this relationship. You and I, and that doesn’t seem to be something we can agree on. We don’t agree about anything any more. When we do, it’s almost always by accident. I want to say that, and instead I just remind you to bring an umbrella. I have no idea where you’re going or who you’re seeing, but I don’t ask that either. Be careful is what I say, but please come home is what I would say out loud if it wouldn’t start a fight.
Do you know? I want to say it before your hand reaches for the door. You turn and glance at me, and I can’t stand that look on your face, empty, emotionless, indifferent. You’re miles away, maybe at your destination already, and I have no idea where that is, or I’d be there too. Not to follow you, you have your own life, your own friends, but if I could be where you are, in your head, I’d be there. I’d be there in a second.
Countless ways to say don’t leave, and none of them sound right in my mind, all of them seem like ticking time bombs. If there was any way to say it that would result in you staying, spending time with me, holding me, I promise I would say it. Do you know what this is doing to me? I wish you did. Worse to admit, I wish you cared. I know, deep down, it hasn’t occurred to you to care. That would mean you notice me at all any more.
Some day, maybe soon, maybe tonight, you’re going to forget all about me. What happens next, I can’t stand to think about, and I think about it every day.
Please, if you ever cared about me at all, just leave. Before I say something to make you cry, stop looking at me. Walk out the door, and do what you have to do, but please come home. Leave, but come home, don’t look at me, but come home.
I’m always the first to break eye contact. It’s because, and I would tell you this if I could, it’s because I see it there. Everything you ever disliked about me, every thing I’m going to do, it’s all reflected right there.
You tell me you’ll be home by ten, but we know you won’t pull back the covers until half past one. I’ll pretend to be asleep while I stare at the wall, hands clenched and fingernails digging trenches into my palms. You’ll look at me, eyes burning into the crown of my skull, and then you’ll roll over, pulling the covers away from me, and sigh. That sigh. One of these days it will kill me. For now, for this evening, it’s what I have to look forward to.
The exercise: a short story, built up from a song lyric.
Ended this one on a preposition– sloppy work, but what can I say, I’m rusty. I’ll try to up the ante this week– I’m likely to have more time to write and to visit here.
You fool….you bastard…to make me cry.
Again you bring up old ghosts, and I hate you for it.
Love,
-Rebecca
I think its a great work & it certainly will make many realise that how precious their love is.
This is one of most powerful pieces I have read of yours thus far. powerful feelings in the last paragraph.
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