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She stares at me,
pushing blonde hair from her decietful,
smiling face.
Her eyes move slowly, her lips rapidly,
and I can read the words she is speaking
to the figure in half-shadow beside her.
Surely, this is her new love.
She asks to be excused for a moment,
walking trancelike over to me.
It is painful for me to see her again.
My eyes refuse to look away.
She is the same woman I left.
Licking her soft pink lips
as if imploring them to make words.
But she says nothing.
Making a questioning gesture,
and taking my silence as grudging approval,
she fills the seat nearest to me
with seemingly no regret.
Hands still and unmoving,
holding steadfast to my frozen coffee,
I stare without interest at a painting on the wall,
my mind racing with thoughts of departure.
We sit in silence.
The clock seems to be ticking
at an unbearably slow rate,
until eventually,
in a barely audible whisper,
she finally speaks my name.
Without an excuse to look away,
my face is drawn to hers,
ever so carefully avoiding her eyes.
Those peircing green eyes.
The ones that used to strip me down to nothing
and take in the pleasure
of my being so naked.
So vulnerable.
And yet I yearned so long to see them again
for the first long year
after we parted ways.
I study her,
taking in every detail of her face.
So mature, so different.
Yet, still with the familiarity
of the girl I used to know.
My hands are suddenly wet with tears.
The sadness and anger
fell gracefully from my eyes,
but I decide against wiping them away.
And then her fingers are touching my face,
a gentle caress that sends
a wordless message.
Almost like she still cares.
But I automatically pull away,
noticing faint traces
of hurt and disappointment
that she unsuccessfully tries to hide.
"I'm sorry."
I'm not.
The words passed my lips
before I could stop them.
She realizes the pointlessness of the situation
and politely excuses herself,
turning her back on me
and returning to her nameless lover.
It's better this way.
I'm sure of it.
I hesitate a brief moment.
Sigh.
Without a second thought,
I am on my feet,
hardly knowing where I am headed.
I pass her table slowly.
Her lover,
completely unaware of the situation,
casts me greeting gesture
that I see from the corner of my eye.
She is not looking at me,
determined to avoid my gaze now,
but I'm only within sight for a moment.
At long last,
I am at the door of the coffeehouse.
I turn,
and take one more fleeting glance behind me.
She is deeply involved in conversation now,
trying to forget the short-lived meeting
altogether.
"I hope she realizes that I forgive her,"
I say silently to myself.
And then I walk in finality through the door,
escaping into the human afternoon.
Jordan A. Wade
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