Breaking Up

 

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"It's cold, " she mumbled looking down at the wet wood between her feet.

"I just meant. . ." he trailed off wondering how once again he lost her eyes and found the top of her head.

He placed his hands in his back pockets and looked up at the void of gray above them. "At least it's not raining now," he thought," it could only make things. . .no, not worse, just more complicated." 

"You always 'just mean,' Mike," a sniffle breaking her words. Was it the cold? Was it her anger? Was it her sadness? 

Then it happened. She tried to go with it - the sniffle, the sadness, the heartache of another shoddy explanation - BUT NOTHING HAPPENED.

In the space between her body and her soul - the space that fills her stomach with butterflies or pours chills down her spine - that space was empty; white, colorless - like the space that surrounded them now.

And in that space and in that space within her, she found release. Release from anxious anticipation of what their next encounter may be - one of love? of cautious friendship? of convenience? Release from giving a damn about his opinions or thoughts about her. Release from the emotional cat and mouse that left her exhausted and demoralized. She looked up at Mike and jabbed him in his Adam's apple. "I don't give a damn. Not anymore." 

As he sputtered, she lifted her collar, tightened her scarf and turned down the path.

Bent over, he looked to see the yellow, then brown, of her Timberlands walking a away.

A soft rain began to fall.

- Writer's Workshop, 2020