When he walks through the door I’ll know. His face will tell me his answer, it’ll be spread across it like a stain.
‘I can’t do this anymore.’
‘You want me to leave her?’
The word I want to say sticks in my throat, rough, jagged.
I shrug. ‘I can’t make that decision for you.’
He held both of my hands in his. ‘I just need some time.’
That was the last we spoke, the silence a fissure. Images of him creep into dreams like wraiths, a manifestation of hope. I wake feeling his hand on my hip.
Story #39 was pulled out of Drabble #2 by the request of the writer.