Everything She Wanted
by Sylvia Spruck Wrigley
She said I was everything she ever wanted.
I remember. I remember how hoarse her voice was as she told me. I believed her.
I look at her eyes now, coal black and unforgiving. She doesn’t want me anymore.
I hiss the words of love at her but she isn’t listening. It doesn’t matter what I say: “I want you.” “I hate you.” “I love you.”
She isn’t listening.
“I want you to go,” I say spitefully and she turns toward me, finally. She listens.
But that’s not enough, is it? When it’s all gone wrong, when you have to use those sorts of words to get a reaction. I can’t stop myself. I lash out, my hand connecting with her cheek and chin. I feel an electric shock up my arm as her flesh bruises under mine.
I can still hear her voice, she said I was everything she had dreamed of. Now she says she’s leaving.
She quivers and kneels before me. I don’t want her to go. I should feel victorious but she doesn’t want me even now. Her eyes stay on the floor as she tells me again that she’s leaving.
I want to feel the shock again. That feeling. I swear at her but it’s not there. I shove her chin to force her to look at me — it’s not there.
“Damn you,” I say and “if you are going, just go.” She kneels by the door, penitent and yet not.
I shove at her again, trying to knock her over. Finally, finally her eyes meet mine.
“I`m leaving,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
I watch her walk out the door and spit on the spot where she was.
“I never wanted you,” I lie, hours after she is gone.
Copyright © 2008 by Sylvia Spruck Wrigley