“Just like your Daddy, leaving me here alone,” she said, spitting out each word like a snake spitting venom.
“This is nothing like what he did.”
“It’s exactly what he did.” The cork on a fresh bottle punctuated the hurt. She and the bottle sighed together. A resentful breath escaped them both. I was consumed by the floor, by the mud that edged along my loafers from the outside, anything but her vinous, hurt eyes. Even so, I heard her heart break. It didn’t shatter. It didn’t smash. It just cracked softly, the breaking of a bird’s wing. There was a snapshot in the kitchen, something that cemented that moment in our minds forever. It was us. We were the hurricane, torn and tearing apart all at once, violent. We were the wine, hastily splashed onto the counter. We were the dirt coating the floor, full of her dreams. We were the envelope, full with mine. We were trying.
“I would have come back.”