What Love Isn't (A Vignette)
A Sequel
Riffing off the previous story.
She swings her hand and slaps me hard across my face—and not for the first time. Time stops while my ears ring in a way I’ve never experienced before. A moment, a fleeting moment, of serenity, of absolute clarity. I can see that she struck me with her left hand (and not for the first time)—the hand with a finger upon which a golden band rests.
I turn around to face the door—determined to leave the situation. She interposes herself between me and the door. I look at her filled with grief. There’s nothing I can say. I plead with her with my eyes (and not for the first time)—I plead with something invisibly within and behind the dark mask that’s come down over her.
Her eyes burn with rage while she glowers at me, her back firmly pressed to the door.
I go and I sit down, to wait out the storm. There’s shouting. Yelling. Berating. I speak when I am demanded to speak. I am silent when what I say is wrong. I apologize when I am required to apologize. The threat of violence colors everything. And not for the first time.
Eventually, she storms off into another room. She overturns a bookshelf, and pulls pictures off the walls. She yells for me to clean it up. I move everything out of the way. It’s 1am. I am exhausted. I will clean it up later.
The storm blows into another room. Quiet. The storm is sleeping.
I tiptoe around. I gather the things I need to work, and put them in a bag. I quietly open the front door, and I quietly lock it behind me.
I drive onto the highway like a thief in the night.
There it is. The moment of clarity. Something like relief. For the first time in too long.
God bless you all!
Now that was heavy.. phew...