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I wanted to love him, but when I’d told him that the night before, his
silence had been clear.
What I wanted wasn’t an option.
“We can get divorced now. Since everyone knows. If you want.”
The last sentence was an exit ramp. A lifeline. A softball pitch to a
home-run hitter.
“What if I don’t want?”
“What would you want then?”
He was supposed to say he wanted me. All of me. Married. Together.
Just the way I was. All the messiness and recklessness I had to offer.
“I don’t know.”
“We’re a mess,” I said, dropping onto the bed.
“Yeah. You should get some sleep. You sound tired.”
“That’s the pot calling the kettle silver.”
He gave me one laugh, then a breath. “You modernized a cliché.”
“I did.”
“Well done, star.”
My body relaxed, and my eyes stopped throbbing enough to close.
“Yay, me.”
“Yay, you.”
“You can call me if you need me.”
“So can you.”
“Okay.” I was already breathing more slowly. The dull thickness of
sleep pushed against the corners of my consciousness.
“I miss you,” he said. “Already.”
Like the tide coming in, oblivion rose and rose, scrambling my words
and thoughts into a kind of truth.
“I miss me too.”
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