He couldn't quite figure out what it was. This unknown beckoning pulsated deep within him, making him tremble, turning his fingers white as bone as he clutched the rosary dear to his heart.
Less then two hours ago he had dropped the gallon of milk, and it splattered all over the linoleum floor, all over his feet, cascading towards the carpet, and retreating underneath the refrigerator. It was his only response, the only thing his body could muster upon his arrival into the kitchen.
Wrapped in wax paper and written on beige stationery was a two fold note, with elegant handwriting scrawled across each page, front and back. It began with
"I think I love you, but now..."
He had smiled upon discovering the note, chalking it up to another romantic gesture, one in a series of acts which weighed heavy in his heart. Acts of love that made him flush, and made his heart swell, and flood with admonishment.
But then he kept reading. And then the tears came, and kept coming.
Two hours later, he couldn't move from the window. Re-reading everything over in his head, hearing her speak those words, it tore at him. Had he done anything right?
He felt like he was decent, and loving, and caring, but the note brought light to his shortcomings. It took too long for him to be accepting, to admire, to be enamored. She cursed her tongue for putting this blame on him, but she couldn't mince words, or deny facts. She felt stupid, she felt weak. She felt at shame for being so caring and not having it reciprocated. She was tired of vesting all her faith and hope into the notion that one day he would feel as strongly as she did. She tired of praying for legitimacy. She left her copy of the key in the paper, wrapped up so delicate.
Now he was alone.
All alone.
1 comment:
3 eprops.
Post a Comment