“What am I supposed to do?” I ask him, wanting some kind of response, some kind of answer.
“Helen and Dex will take care of anything you need—”
“Helen and Dexter? They know about this?” I yell.
He looks away for the hundredth time today.
“How long have you known that you were leaving me? Have you gotten bored with me, or is this just a spur-of-the-moment thing?”
“It’s not like that,” he says, walking toward me.
I step away quickly. “Then what? Tell me what it’s like. Tell me something. Tell me why,” I say as the burning in my throat mounts. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!”
My throat feels as if it’s on fire. My vision is so blurry I can’t even see him clearly. I walk over to the bed and rest my head in my hands. I’m completely drained. Every emotion inside me is spilling over, and all I can do is cry. He walks toward me, reaching out. I get up to step away, but he pulls me into him.
“Why? Why are you doing this to me?” I whimper, feeling too drained to push him away, and I don’t want to. I want to hold him and never let him go. I can feel myself completely breaking down.
“I’m sorry,” he says, stroking my hair.
But instead of finding that endearing, I feel like a helpless puppy about to be put to sleep at the pound.
“No, you aren’t,” I tell him in a daze. I’m not even in this moment. I can only see past it. And I see nothing.
“Yes, I am,” he says softly in my ear. I don’t detect a hint of sarcasm or amusement in his voice, which makes me cry even more.
I wrap my arms around him tightly and look into his eyes. “Don’t make me ask you to stay.”
I cry harder. I can’t even control what I’m saying, what I’m feeling. I feel as if everything is crashing down around me.
“I wish I could,” he replies in a whisper.
“Don’t! Don’t you dare make this seem as if it’s out of your control. If you wanted to stay, you would!”
It takes all my strength, but I remove myself from his arms. My vision is so blurred that all I see is a vague image of him. I feel his hands touch both sides of my waist, and his lips meet mine. I don’t even respond. I can’t. I want to kiss him back, wrap my arms around him, but I’m numb, too numb to react, too helpless to pull away. I can’t even register this; I won’t believe this is the last time he’ll kiss me, the last time he’ll touch me. I close my eyes, pretending this is all a bad dream and that I’ll wake up any minute. But when his lips leave mine, I know I won’t wake up. This isn’t a bad dream; I’m living this. I feel his lips move to my cheek.
“You’ll get through this,” he says. “You’ll have to.”
I wipe my eyes and look at him quickly before they blur again. “If you’re leaving, go!” I try to hold on to the last thread of dignity I have, the one thing that’s keeping me from begging him not to leave me. “Leave.” I push him. “I hate you! I hate you, you fucking bastard!”
I hit his chest furiously—I’m a hysterical, sobbing mess—and he stands there and takes it, not even trying to stop me. He looks drained too, and I hate him for it.
I hate that, even at this moment, I hope he’s okay. I hate the fact that his expression is soft, and he seems vulnerable. It’s all a trick. He’s trying to convey that he doesn’t really want to go. How could he do this to me and make me feel sorry for him? Why, in this moment, am I worried about him?
“Just go,” I whimper.
I make my way to the floor, not wanting to feel anything, not even the comfort of the bed we once shared. My whimpers are probably inaudible to him, but it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t care. I can’t believe that he cares, not now. I have to believe he doesn’t. I won’t give away my anger. It’s all I can hold on to. The alternative is worse, but I feel it winning out. It’s about to take over, and I silently pray that he leaves before it does, because I’m on the verge of it. It’s growing from the pit of my stomach—desperation.
I squeeze my fists together and bury my head underneath my arms. His footsteps approach. He nears me, and a moment later, the steps grow distant, farther and farther away with each second. Then the door closes, and I feel as if my heart has stopped. I lift my head and see that he’s gone. My imitation of a prayer has been granted, and that desperation in my stomach is now morphing into something else, something even more terrifying—complete and utter sorrow.
I close my eyes and my new prayer is for sleep. I want out of this moment, out of this life I’ve fallen into—that I’m now trapped in alone. My only temporary freedom is sleep. I squeeze my eyes shut and wish more than anything that sleep comes and comes fast. But it doesn’t, not in the following minutes or even the following hour. I feel catatonic, staring at the clock over my bed.
When I hear the door open again, my heart rate goes into overdrive, but I close my eyes, almost afraid to see him, wondering if he left something behind—if he forgot his keys or something important enough to take with him. I keep my eyes closed and try to slow down my breathing when I hear him move around me. I hope he’ll get what he needs quickly and leave me to my despair.
His footsteps near me again. I hold my breath, hoping if I hold it long enough, he’ll disappear. But when his hands move underneath me and he lifts me into his arms, I lose my breath completely. I’m afraid to breathe and only do so when he finally lays me down on the bed. He lifts my legs, removes each of my shoes, and I don’t know what to do. Do I say something? Do I kick him away? A moment later, cool sheets cover me. Then his lips rest gently on my forehead and I feel frozen, knowing he thinks I’m asleep. His footsteps grow distant again, the light clicks off, the door opens, and that welling from earlier comes up again, full force. I shoot up from my zombie-like state.
“Can you stay?” I blurt out and immediately regret it.
He stops in his tracks, his back toward me—there’s silence, and I remember I’m supposed to be asleep. But here I am, punishing him for his last act of decency toward me.
“Just—just until I fall asleep,” I manage to squeak out without my voice breaking, my old self content that the words have been spoken. The jaded, vindictive woman I’ve become these last few months cringes at the sound of them.
He doesn’t answer, but he walks back toward the bed. I slowly release the sheets trapped between my fingers. He sits on the edge of the bed, still not facing me, and rests his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped together. I feel the burning sensation in my chest followed by the stinging coming up in my throat. In the next few minutes, I’m not going to be able to stop crying.
I immediately regret asking him to stay. I tell myself he has to be here out of pity, or some fucked-up sense of duty, granting his desperate wife a last request. A wife who doesn’t even know where the fuck he’s going and what’s making him sit so far away from me on our bed as if I’m disgusting. I change my mind. I want him out, but I can’t tell him without unleashing what will be an uncontrollable, hideous wail. So I quickly force myself back onto the bed, pull the sheets over my face, and try my best to whimper as quietly as I can.