Page 72 of The River in Spring
There’s a long pause before my words reach her head and heart.
“What.”
It is not a question she asks. The realization of what I’m saying wounds her. And for just a moment it almost makes me reconsider. Hurting her is torment, and I am completely aware that is what I’m doing. But better now than later when it will hurt more. It is said hope springs eternal. But false hope is a dead thing. It’s worse than the ugly truth and only prolongs the inevitable.
She whispers, “Don’t you love me?”
My heart sinks.
“It’s because I love you.”
Silence. Then the phone goes dead. Along with myself.
Day two of this new reality begins as expected. I wake up feeling like a pile of shit. Sunlight through the windows is harsh on bloodshot eyes. I need to stop drinking today. As soon as the thought leaves me, I eye the bottle. No. What time is it? Checking my cell, I skim by the eleven thirty numbers and go directly to messages. None from her.
Drool has dried on the side of my mouth, and the headache is bad. But the urge to piss worse. Standing slowly, I feel the result of sleeping on the couch with a jacket as a pillow. My clothes are twisted and wrinkled. For the first time in my life, I feel old. Not sure what to blame, last night’s bed, or last night’s drama.
“Fuck.”
The bathroom seems a mile away, but halfway there, Dove appears in my mind. It’s done. I made it clear. Hope I was kind. Not sure I was. A fuzzy memory of her wounded surprise tells me the answer. Should I text and see how she’s feeling today? Don’t be a passive aggressive ass. Of course, you shouldn’t. I cut the cord, severed the ties, now I need to live it. Funny how those euphemisms both involve a knife and a wound disguised as good sense when someone has too much influence.
I drop my pants and release the flaccid hound. Images of her. Awww. Relief. Even when I’m pissing, she takes center stage. There’s a persistent nudge poking my consciousness. A voice trying to get my attention and point out the obvious.You are an asshole. You are.
A shake and a zip later, I head for the kitchen. Better eat something. Maybe it will fill the hole in my life.
Ring!The doorbell sounds annoying. I check the phone and access the front porch camera. Shit it’s Aargon. I don’t feel like talking. But fuck, the shutters are open, and the curtains drawn back. I can’t get out of it.
Walking to the door I see him looking inside. Watching as I approach.
“Hey,” I say, opening the door.
I must look bad, because his eyebrows knit together and his mouth tightens.
“What happened to you? You look like shit.”
He follows me into the kitchen, waiting for an answer.
“Nothing. I had a few too many drinks last night.”
“What happened?” He doesn’t take no for an answer.
I load the coffee maker while filling in the blanks.
“I broke it off with Dove.”
There it is wrapped in a nutshell.
He moves closer, to have eye contact.
“What are you talking about? Why?
“Because it’s not going to work. I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“No. It isn’t okay. I want to know.”
I turn and lean against the counter. “Coffee?”
The disgust on his face tells me I’m in for it.
