It’s dark around her, although the lights are on, and the way the light cuts through the barely yellow liquid in the long stemmed glass comforts her. The glass, slippery from the condensation of an unusually humid Colorado evening, sits close by her side, providing a comfort he used to offer.
She didn’t actually expect it would work out with him, but she certainly did hope. Everyone around her is getting engaged, getting married, getting pregnant, getting houses and getting dogs. The pressure to be “getting” something is purely self-inflicted and sometimes great. And with that expectation comes hope. Hope to be doing the same. To be experiencing the same stages of life with her great friends–sharing those experiences, those memories, spending them together.
But it didn’t work with him. And it hadn’t worked with the others before him. And after he came to their table while she sat having sushi with her girlfriends, that gal who was usually strong and steadfast; her fortitude, usually incapable of wavering, in this instance, failed her.
Shaken. She ate with her eyes focused on the table. Her best girlfriends looking on, waiting for a response, an expression of the reaction she should provide. She struggled, silently, to pick up another piece of spicy tuna roll with wobbly chopsticks.
Now, at home, she sits, tears streaming for reasons inexplicable and pooling in that crevice of her collarbone, a salty residue on her pink, splotchy cheeks.
Something is missing, obviously. But the void, it wasn’t him…