December 1 - December 7 (Short Story)
She doesn't know whether the resentment she feels is valid.
She knows that he did everything in his power to help her; is aware that he's put himself out for her; and yet, she resents him.
She resents that he believes she needs his help. She resents that he knows she'd be lost without him. Most of all, she resents that he didn't choose her in the end.
It's never easy when one person loves more than another. She's proof that things don't ever work out the way we want them to. She watches him walk away, her gaze faltering slightly when he reaches his wife. She bites down on her cheek, willing the traitorous tears to stay in their ducts. She feels his eyes on her and, when she meets his remorseful gaze, she feels the anger rise up like lava in an active volcano. She turns on her heel, leaving him, leaving the life she dreamed she'd have when he'd choose her, leaving her old life in ruins.
She walks with purpose, her heels click-clacking on the cold pavement. She knows he did the right thing. She knows she wouldn't love him as much as she does if he'd done the wrong thing and had chosen her. She knows all of this and yet... she does not want to see reason.
She doesn't want to empathize with him. She wants to revel in her anger, her resentment. Wants to soak up all the negativity like she would bath water, staying in the tub long after her fingers are pruning. She clenches her jaw, feeling another wave of anger wash over her.
The pounding of footsteps on the pavement alert her that he's come after her. She wipes at her cheeks, angry that some wayward tears had managed to escape her eyes and braces herself for his appearance.
She feels a tug at her shoulder and the rage bubbles up like too hot water in a too hot pot. She rounds on him, furious. "Don't."
Her eyes meet his and she sees the shame stain his cheeks. She smothers the need to comfort him, reminding herself that he's the one who led her on; he's the one who made her want things she never thought she'd have. She bites down hard on her lip, training her eyes on the ground.
"I don't know why you're upset, Laura." His voice is calm, his words stilted. She wants to slap him. "You knew I was married." He holds up his left hand, the ring on his finger sparkling in the dim light of the streetlights. "I know I flirted--" her gaze shift up to his face and she takes comfort in how uncomfortable he looks. "I know I-I shouldn't have kissed you, but--"
"Don't."
"Laura."
"Jackson, please leave me alone." She wraps her arms around her middle, hating how open and vulnerable she feels, needing to hold herself together.
He makes to grab her, but she pulls away. His hand hangs in the air between them; in limbo, in space, floating like an empty plastic bottle polluting the sea.
She hears him clear his throat.
"I'm so sorry," he says like a confession.
"I'm sorry too," she whispers. She finally meets his gaze, feeling empowered by his reticence. Tilting her chin up, she awards him with a sardonic smile. "I'm sorry that you can't seem to tell the difference between your head and your ass. I'm sorry your wife has to put up with you wooing women. I'm sorry you're a player. I'm sorry you're oblivious to your own wrongdoings. I'm sorry you're as obtuse as a triangle. I'm sorry you feel as though you're entitled to me." Her lips quiver, her legs shake, but she forges on. "I'm sorry you're never going to taste the honey nectar between my thighs ever again. But, most of all, I'm sorry I fell for your act. I'm sorry I didn't see through you. I'm sorry I gave in."
She watches him open and close his mouth, reminding her of a landlocked fish who's suffocating. She spins on her heel and walks away, knowing he will not follow her this time.
She knows that he did everything in his power to help her; is aware that he's put himself out for her; and yet, she resents him.
She resents that he believes she needs his help. She resents that he knows she'd be lost without him. Most of all, she resents that he didn't choose her in the end.
It's never easy when one person loves more than another. She's proof that things don't ever work out the way we want them to. She watches him walk away, her gaze faltering slightly when he reaches his wife. She bites down on her cheek, willing the traitorous tears to stay in their ducts. She feels his eyes on her and, when she meets his remorseful gaze, she feels the anger rise up like lava in an active volcano. She turns on her heel, leaving him, leaving the life she dreamed she'd have when he'd choose her, leaving her old life in ruins.
She walks with purpose, her heels click-clacking on the cold pavement. She knows he did the right thing. She knows she wouldn't love him as much as she does if he'd done the wrong thing and had chosen her. She knows all of this and yet... she does not want to see reason.
She doesn't want to empathize with him. She wants to revel in her anger, her resentment. Wants to soak up all the negativity like she would bath water, staying in the tub long after her fingers are pruning. She clenches her jaw, feeling another wave of anger wash over her.
The pounding of footsteps on the pavement alert her that he's come after her. She wipes at her cheeks, angry that some wayward tears had managed to escape her eyes and braces herself for his appearance.
She feels a tug at her shoulder and the rage bubbles up like too hot water in a too hot pot. She rounds on him, furious. "Don't."
Her eyes meet his and she sees the shame stain his cheeks. She smothers the need to comfort him, reminding herself that he's the one who led her on; he's the one who made her want things she never thought she'd have. She bites down hard on her lip, training her eyes on the ground.
"I don't know why you're upset, Laura." His voice is calm, his words stilted. She wants to slap him. "You knew I was married." He holds up his left hand, the ring on his finger sparkling in the dim light of the streetlights. "I know I flirted--" her gaze shift up to his face and she takes comfort in how uncomfortable he looks. "I know I-I shouldn't have kissed you, but--"
"Don't."
"Laura."
"Jackson, please leave me alone." She wraps her arms around her middle, hating how open and vulnerable she feels, needing to hold herself together.
He makes to grab her, but she pulls away. His hand hangs in the air between them; in limbo, in space, floating like an empty plastic bottle polluting the sea.
She hears him clear his throat.
"I'm so sorry," he says like a confession.
"I'm sorry too," she whispers. She finally meets his gaze, feeling empowered by his reticence. Tilting her chin up, she awards him with a sardonic smile. "I'm sorry that you can't seem to tell the difference between your head and your ass. I'm sorry your wife has to put up with you wooing women. I'm sorry you're a player. I'm sorry you're oblivious to your own wrongdoings. I'm sorry you're as obtuse as a triangle. I'm sorry you feel as though you're entitled to me." Her lips quiver, her legs shake, but she forges on. "I'm sorry you're never going to taste the honey nectar between my thighs ever again. But, most of all, I'm sorry I fell for your act. I'm sorry I didn't see through you. I'm sorry I gave in."
She watches him open and close his mouth, reminding her of a landlocked fish who's suffocating. She spins on her heel and walks away, knowing he will not follow her this time.
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