BY: JUSEPH ELAS
He’s leaning across the room facing the fireplace, holding the frame with both hands for support. At the corner of my eye, I see him breathing hard. Minutes ago, he’s on with his continuous verbal assaults, firing like fire and powder at a non-stop. I sigh.
The dark-wood floor is scratched with the broken vases caused by the early battle at which now at bay. My eyes start to pool with unbidden tears. How could I have ended up with a guy like him? My friends warned me, but I choose to ignore them. Maybe it’s me and my blind optimism to blame, but could you blame yourself for loving someone so dearly? Could you ignore the butterflies in your stomach when you feel that feeling when someone makes you feel special? Could you just turn down someone who seems too nice and gentle. . .at first?
The broken vases and chinas are scattered all over the floor. The small table at the center, or it used to be, is turned up-side-down on the corner. The temperature seems to have dropped despite the hotness of the summer. No one is talking, ‘cause talking will turn into a heated argument, argument to shouting, shouting to more chinas flying everywhere, and worst. . .
“So what’s it gonna be?” He asked, without turning his back to me. Everything is a mess, everything is falling apart, everything is not making sense. Nothing has made sense from the very start.
This is what he wants. Separation. It seems just like yesterday when we were happy together, enjoying the summer heat, laughter and joy painted in the atmosphere by our sanguine mood. It seems just like a dream, a too-good-to-be-true scene, but it has happened. Once upon a time.
The song went from happy to happy for a couple of months. My friends thought that it won’t change; I thought that the composition will continuously bear the same mood for the next, but the composer changed it.
I paid him a visit at his office a week ago, expecting him working behind his mahogany table with his laptop propped open and papers on top of his table. I expected to see a man in his mid twenties, gray suit and brows creased, trying to finish a paper. But I scratch all of those when the elevator door opened. Inside, I saw a girl in a pencil skirt, and sky blue blouse that hangs in that fashion and a man whom I believe is my fiancé. She clings to my fiancé’s shoulder as her lips are attached to his, his lips tracing hers. Her legs are clutched up on his hips as he caresses her thighs passionately. They continued their sensual assault for an extended period of seconds before noticing me staring, appalled, at them.
He was shell-shocked when he saw me and he immediately let go of the bitch. He tries to advance a few steps towards me, but I raised my hands to stop him. My breathing became labored at what I saw, I blinked the tears back to my eyes, and I’ve seen enough.
“Stop! Don’t,” I struggled for words. I turned my back and started to pace the lobby of the building. Everything seemed to have stopped for a moment, and all I could hear are my heels stomping on the hard floor.
In the next days I asked myself about where did I go wrong for him to do that. Am I boring him? Don’t I pass as his girl – emotional and sexual? Does he prefer a secretary over a CPA? Haven’t I given all I’ve got just to be perfect to to him? I feel unappreciated!
Then I stopped seeing him. And now, he wants me to finish this relationship of which now I regret of having. I don’t want to speak no more, I don’t want to go on to the painful and paralyzing horror of talking things through because I know where this all will end.
I got up from the chair and paced the room towards the door. I got my jacket and push my arms on it. Once done, I make my way back to the living room. He peeks up at me. I stared at his smoky gray eyes for the last time.
“Take it all.” Then I left.