“You’re leaving? Just like that?” I yell as he yanks the pants up over his legs.
He turns to look at me, sadness anger and confusion in his eyes but he doesn’t say anything. All the more reason for me to just let him go but it sparks something inside me, something primal. I leap up from where I’m laying on the other side of the bed and lunge at him. I don’t give him time to even attempt to push me away as I straddle him, knocking him over in the process
“Haven’t we been through enough?”I scream at him.
Again he doesn’t say a word, this time he won’t let me see what his ice blue eyes reveal. He’s pinned to the bed but could easily push his way free with those strong arms, god I love the way they feel when he’s holding me. Get it together, babe. I chastise myself for even allowing the thought to enter my mind. I’m supposed to be pissed.
“Look at me, damnit!” I yell.
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore…” he said a few weeks before.
“I am looking at you, Jesus. I look at you all the time. I think about looking at you, dream about it for christ’s sake. I’ve never not been able to look at you. It seems, though, that’s all I can do anymore. You’re everywhere. The curve of your hips and the spot behind your ear, the tiny tattoo on your wrist and the way you used to arch up when… it’s just not the same…” he says quietly at first and then the deep timbre of his voice booms under me.
I don’t know how to respond to that. It’s the most he’s spoken to me in hours, hell days maybe. My mind tries to flash back again and this time I let it.
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out together. God, I’m just so glad I get to have this conversation with you…” I said a week after it happened.
“Let me up…” he says gruffly.
I reluctantly move off of him and watch as he rights himself and finishes getting his pants and shoes on. All the air feels like it’s escaping from my lungs as my eyes see things they don’t process. He’s really serious. Six years and in the last year and a half my whole world crumbled. Just like that. I watch him open a drawer and pull out a t-shirt and it hits me, we’ve been here before.
“I don’t think I can deal with this…” I said after a particularly brutal verbal lashing from him.
As I gathered some of my things from his room I heard it, barely a whisper.
I wait, watching him grab a few things and toss them into a bag, it’s as though I’m watching myself through his eyes. And it’s agony. Pure torture.