No Words Left

Staring into the fire, I give up pretending I’m reading and close the book in my lap. I set it on the coffee table and run my hands over my face. He is three hours late. Flopping backward on the couch, I slide like a dead fish to the floor, causing my legs to coil oddly beneath me. My boot treads catch on the bear skin rug. Running my hands through the fur, I pretend it's his hair and sharply pull. A few strands stick to my clammy fingers. It doesn’t ease my mood.

How did we get here? He and I. Us. We. Now separate and alone. He. Me. I wanted this. Right? I asked for it. I demanded it. But maybe it was rash. I huff a breath and watch the fur blow away from my face.

Tires crunch on the gravel outside, and I press up to my elbows. He’s here. Panicky, I clamor to my knees and use the coffee table to stand. What do I do, stand here stiff, like an idiot? I limp into the kitchen, favoring my bad leg. I chastise myself for lying on the floor. I know better. I hear his boots on the porch. I hold my breath and suck in my stomach. He is pausing on the other side. What if he turns to leave? He can’t just leave. I let the air escape my lungs; my shoulders round in on themselves. A low scrape along the wood, a timid knock. I open my mouth to grant him entry, but nothing comes out. Instead, I pull in a fortifying breath and lift to my full height.

The cabin door pushes open. He doesn’t step in right away but scans the room. The fire, the oversized leather couches, and the mug of steaming tea abandoned on the coffee table. Then he locks onto me, holding my breath behind the breakfast bar in the kitchen. He runs a hand over his beard and shakes his head once as if battling an inner monologue. We haven’t seen each other in over a year, and something pinches in my stomach at the sight of his familiar form.

I move. I limp to the cupboard, stretch as far my limbs will allow, and blindly flop my hand inside. When we were still together, he would slide in behind me, grab my hip, and reach the shelf for me. Back when my leg wasn’t shattered, and he didn’t blame himself. Back when we fought for each other. But now, he stands by the door awkwardly watching me. My hand meets glass as I pull his favorite whiskey down. I hold it up sheepishly. He half smiles and shrugs as he walks to the couch.

The old bottle holds only a few shots, so I evenly distribute them into mugs. As I sit beside him, his hands rub his eyes, giving me time to glance down his body. He looks thin and smells different. He lifts his face and plucks a mug from my hand, briefly touching my fingers. He leans back to stare into my eyes. I resist the temptation to dry my hands on my jeans. His eyes close, finally shutting me out, and he takes a drink. I do the same. The air is thick between us. We have left so much unsaid, with nothing left to say. Leaning forward, he pulls a manilla envelope from his back pocket. He runs his hands over it repeatedly, smoothing the crease down the center. Throwing back the last of my whisky, I shake my head in protest. In relief. In Panic.

He sucks down the last of his whisky and offers me the envelope. I let the mug swing from my fingertips as I stare at his hands. The cup drops into the rug as I lift a palm. He reaches the rest of the way handing it over, then shoots from his seat and heads into the kitchen. With shaky fingers, I pull the divorce papers free. My angry, sloped letters pressed hard into the page, the ones I signed in haste months ago. His name is next to mine, hesitant. Almost as though I could blow across the forms, and it would lift right off.

I had wanted this. I had begged, screamed, and fought. But now, with his heavy guilt and my desperation to be seen choking us in this room, I feel like maybe this wasn’t the right choice. Maybe, just maybe, we could’ve talked through the pain of the car accident and the brutal blow of the loss of the baby. Then the surgeries and the physical therapy, and when he came home later and later. I realize now how wrong that thought is. The pain is too big for our marriage to manage. The words are too ugly to say out loud. Our love is brittle; our sadness sharp. We cannot survive together. I hope we can survive apart.

He returns to the couch empty-handed, eyes red-rimmed and staring at the fire I built. I run my fingers across his brow. His eyes close as his face softens. He leans his head on my shoulder, and I run my hands through his hair. He gulps a shuddering breath, then lets loose a sniffle. His fingers trace over my bad knee, and my fingers find his and intertwine. Holding one another, we softly rock together.

He sits up, wipes his eyes, and places the papers back into the envelope, setting them gingerly in the center of the table. He takes my face in his palms, kisses my forehead twice, and places his against mine. He lets out a breath and squeezes my cheeks. Pushing off the couch, he shakes his keys free from his pocket. He leans down and kisses the top of my head once more. With rounded shoulders, he walks out the door without looking back.