september 12

The door slammed shut in her face and she felt the wisps of hair move with the sudden breeze. The exchange which seemed like years before was brief and cold. And the familiar taste of embarrassing shame flooded her mouth like so many sips of rancid wine fermenting too many years in the bottle.

He was shirtless and barefoot upon answering the door-- A familiar look that carried no pretense or suggestion. As she entered into the sparse front living space, he put his shirt back on, the first of a few exchanges that collected in her mind like bad episodes of nausia. He sat back down at the table where he had been working, closed the box of cheez-its (the second exchange) and looked at her with loathing. He had already distanced himself; protecting himself from feeling or truth. She tried to make light of his demeanor by laughing-- nervously picking the label off her beer bottle, but the desired effect didn't come. She looked down at the bottle wondering why she came.

Her face was flush as he spoke the words; his voice steady, unfeeling, as if reading a directive for a standardized test or scolding a small child. She put the bottle on the uneven table and watched the change below scatter. His toes were thin and dainty, one foot crossed over the other.

She knew this would be the last of their exchanges: the last time being so close to him, the last time she would be in a room alone with him. The tuber roses were wilting on the counter behind him.

They sat in silence as she finished her beer, she stood and said goodbye, waiting for him to respond.
He walked again with purpose to the door, as if getting rid of a magazine salesman or a zealot Christian and the door was closed. They both sighed--his a sigh of relief, hers a sigh of heartbreak.