The Last Straw
Today would be great, a shot at the future, a rewriting of the past, a chance to reconquer. She’s coming over.
I’m not sure how we got there. It started innocently enough. She was getting another tattoo, a practice I’d always resented yet admired, a display of everything I wasn’t. The parlor wasn’t far from my place. She wasn’t familiar with the area. She asked for company, moral support. Who was I to deny her? Of course, I agreed.
So I stand waiting for her train, nervous, dressed way too fancy, a present in hand. I wrote a letter. I know it’s sappy, and stupid, and awkward. The word had poured forth anyway. I might keep it to myself.
The train rolls in, screeches to a halt; people erupt everywhere. I glance past their heads, frantic, looking for…
An arm waves over at me. I catch the curly blond hair. I focus on the smile, the lips, their red. My heart goes wild. She pushes along the crowd. It’s been years. I see she hasn’t changed, just grown older.
She leans in for a kiss; I catch her sent. My pulse bursts into my temple and nearly knocks me down. No, she hasn’t changed one bit.
We amble out, shooting small talk back and forth. There’s a few hours left to her appointment. We sit at a café, order coffee, catch up. She shares her victories and misfortunes. I drink her presence in like a parched man.
Enraptured by her lips, I offer my present, a box of cookies, the fancy stuff. She laughs, says I shouldn’t have, accepts them anyway.
I feel empowered. I reach for the letter.
She locks eyes with me, smile turning sad. She’s pregnant, her current boyfriend. She’s keeping it. The drinks arrive. They taste like ash.
Eventually, she goes to the bathroom.
I get up. I walk away. I leave behind a crumpled letter.