You Can't Take It Back (Fiction, Long Post)

They stood facing each other, the air thick around them, crackling with tension. They stood and stared. Her chest heaved, up and down, her arms slack at her sides, her mind a whir of confusion and hurt. She was finding it hard to breathe. The silence rushed in on her, filling her ears like rushing water, the beat of her heart pounding loudly against the void. The air seared her lungs and burned all the way down to her soul. She felt the ache in her heart squeeze hard at her chest. The heat that had powered their argument was cooling quickly and she felt the rise of bumps along her arms and legs.

She watched as his eyes registered regret, then stubborn resolution; he didn’t look away. She continued to stare, to search his weathered features, to try to recognize the man she’d married. The boyishness was long gone, vanished with his compassion for her. Somewhere along the road they had traveled that young man had been replaced with greying hair at his temples, haggard lines on his cheeks and a hardness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. At this moment he was no longer someone she recognized. She let her gaze fall to his clenched fists, his expanded waistline, his faded jeans. When had he left her? Had she pushed him away? Was this somehow her fault?

Her ears were still ringing with the words. She drug her eyes back to his face, searching for any sign of a coming apology. There was none. She held her breath for short bursts, knowing each time she released the air and took another it might be the one that sent her sobbing. She vowed she wouldn’t do that yet, not here, not in his presence. Her pride wouldn’t let it happen where he could watch.

She forced a small, tight smile and blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. She tried to force her mind to make sense of what he’d said. What exactly had he said? Could she recall the words, or only the pain? The sounds of them, swift and sharp, had stuck to her like darts, stinging and hurtful. She wanted to pluck them out, throw them to the floor, tell him to say it again, but her request stayed walled behind a fortress of teeth and lips. If she unclenched her jaw and tried to speak she would surely crumble.

A shiver slunk down her spine, her gut wrenched painfully and she fought the urge to vomit. Only now did his face spark a sliver of concern. He extended his arm to reach for her. She turned, denying him any touch.

“Don’t,” she managed through the grind of her jaw.

“I-“

“You’ve said enough.” It was those few words that broke the dam on her tears. They ran down her cheeks, hot and salty. She swiped quick at her face with the back of her hand and turned to walk away, “I have work to do.”

He spun her around by her arm so that she had to work to maintain her balance. She stared at his hand on her skin, tight enough to push flesh through the gaps, until he let her go. The print of his hand on her remained, pink against pale. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

She rubbed her arm where he had touched her, “No. You meant it, or you wouldn’t have said it. We always mean the things we say, whether we should say them or not.” Her voice was quiet, deliberate, cool.

She stared at the floor, silence yawning lazily between them now. She was suddenly exhausted, bone tired and mentally weary. Although she struggled to move, she felt an incredible lightness; a floating, twisting, bobbing along that should have caused her alarm. She couldn’t bring herself to register the angst. She was drained. She wished she could be washed away with the tide she drifted on now; to be sucked out to oblivion would be less painful.

She moved on unsteady feet back to the table and sank heavily into her chair.

“I am sorry.”

“Me too,” she forced herself to look back into those eyes. “Is it enough? Is being ‘sorry’ enough?”

He reached for his ball cap and ran his fingers through his thick hair. He met her gaze as he placed his hat back on his head, “I don’t know.”

He searched her face, his grey eyes flicking along her features. What was he seeing? Her age? The woman she once was? Did he find what he was looking for? He turned and put his hand on the doorknob. For only a moment he hesitated and then was gone, pulling the latch home with a click.

“Me neither,” she whispered as the tears cascaded down her face unfettered.

Photo Credit: Creative Commons