He walks in and puts his stuff down. He strips his shirt off and heads for the shower. No goodnight, because they are not talking. Haven’t been talking for two weeks now. Despite herself she can’t take her eyes off him. She can’t help but yearn for his touch and his kisses, she can’t help but want to see him smile and joke with her like they used to. Before it happened the first time. Before he broke them the first time.
She can’t help but wonder if tonight will be the night that he says that it’s over. That he’s not coming back. She wonders if tonight he will give her her freedom. But she wasn’t even sure she wanted to be free of him. She loved him.
Now as she watches and replays the scene over and over. Him ranting and her realizing, that this was not about her, it wasn’t about the way he had twisted the knife to her gut time and again, it wasn’t about her tears or her pain, it wasn’t about her dedication and self sacrifice. It was about him, and all the things he wanted. All the things he refused to ask her for, all the things she had denied him for so long. She remembered what she had said.
“If you want me to trust you, be someone worthy of my trust.” and she had meant it. Completely. But there was nothing she could say after that. So she kept watching. Unable to tear her eyes away.
But that wasn’t fair was it? She had helped him get them here. She had driven him away with her ambition, her career, her responsibilities. So could she blame him? Yes she could. She had done it all for them, and he had done what he did for him. Just him. But still she can’t stop looking and wanting. So she turns from him, she finds something, anything to keep her distracted from everything she wants in that moment, lying on her bed, reading his book. Looking for all the world someone not in the least bothered by what he did. Again.
She tried to stop herself at night, from crying into her pillow. But someone had poured cement into her solar plexus about two weeks ago. She she contented herself not letting it show too much, not to appear weak in front of him. And somewhere in the night she would feel is rough hands on her cheek, and she would snuggle into him, even before she caught herself. He would reach for her, and she would oblige, cuddling with him, his body a fortress against the cold, her comfort and her guilty pleasure.
She would lay in the circle of him arms, with the heart hammering in her concrete chest, listening to his breath slow and steady in sleep. And she would whisper to his unhearing ears.
“I love you. I’m sorry.” Before careening into exhausted blackness herself.