Regret and Cigars

Outside her house, there’s a man in a blue car.

The cigar smoke gave him away.

It danced in curls through the small opening of the window, the scent tart and biting in the cool air. She could smell it a block and a half from her house, and it was the only reason she was able to spot him.

He wanted her to see him.

A spike of adrenaline and fear shot through her, coating the back of her tongue, so bitter it made her wince. Scarlett picked up her pace, keeping her head down and hand tight around her purse strap, black sneakers slapping against wet concrete, the only sound on this grey day. Normally she’d still be in bed but she couldn’t sleep, awake hours before her alarm was set to go off, she showered and got dressed, walking the four blocks to get a coffee and breakfast.

Green eyes flit back to the car and her stomach was tight with fear and anger and want.

She breathed in deep and released a long breath. Instead of calming the emotions swirling through her body, it ignited something in it; her knuckles turned white and sweat gathered above the Cupid’s bow of her lip. How many nights did she wrap herself in sheets that were covered in those heavy, earthy notes twirling from his car window? How many times had sure, deft hands traced her stretch marks and childhood scars? How many times has that scent been washed away by his wife’s jasmine body wash as Scarlett rushed to leave and ached to stay?

The thought created a familiar tug low in her belly.

Scarlett made it to the front door, blonde curls riotous from the promise of rain, giving her a feral look. She adjusted the bag in her arms so she could get her keys out and get inside. He was going to come to her, she could feel it. But she didn’t want that conversation to happen on her front steps. Safely inside, she took one last look at him. The car was off and sat under the large oak trees across the street, and despite the low hanging branches, she could make out his broad shoulders and was able to easily imagine the set of his jaw as he stared at her, eyes narrowed and hungry; his teeth grinding, bones in his jaw scratching against one another so forcefully, he’ll feel it for days after this.

She shouldn’t have sent the letter.

That’s not entirely true, it needed to be sent, but she could have tried for one last conversation before dropping it into the mailbox. Her bag dropped to the floor as she shut the door and pulled her lower lip between her teeth, biting at the dry skin. Heading towards the kitchen, she remembered how freeing it had been to watch the envelope tumble into darkness. It was two nights ago that the words, “we have to stop” were uttered and they continued to echo through her head and heart. Scarlett had been angry, and that anger burned her from the inside, out. She wanted him to feel that burning, imagine the flame hot against his skin as he sat there and stared at the envelope clutched in his fist, tear stains on the parchment.

She was on autopilot as she pulled a small takeaway container out of the fridge, her breakfast sandwich forgotten on the counter. In the dim light of the morning, she stared at the slice of chocolate cake. It was ordered two nights ago when the other shoe finally dropped. They didn’t get a chance to eat it (she thought about that damned cake all through dinner), but she couldn’t bear to throw it away afterwards. Now, she stabbed it with a fork and shoved a small piece into her mouth. It tasted of regret and cigars, and she spat it into the sink, grabbed a tumbler, dropping ice and a fair amount of bourbon into the glass. That first sip was biting and harsh, but it helped to calm her nerves, and rinse her mouth. She knew it was only a matter of time before he knocked on the door.

He knew she was home, knew she saw him, and now, it was time to talk.

Grabbing her drink, she made her way into the living room and chose the seat that placed her back to the window. She took a deep breath, a healthy sized gulp and let her head fall back against the grey cushion. It had been almost ten months since they met at Verde, a bar close to the university, that she only stumbled upon because of the frustration she felt at the freshmen in her American Literature class, who continued to struggle with the concept of completing their assignments. They literally drove her to drink. Scarlett was alone and content at the far corner of the bar, scrolling through her phone after repeated attempts at grading papers failed. She felt someone sit beside her, and it started with an introduction, a kind smile, bright eyes, one drink and some playful banter, and soon it became five drinks and conversations about literature, art and baseball.

They kissed that night.

The feeling that flooded her was the very thing poets spent their lives writing about.

Almost every day or night after, they managed to find time to be together. She blinked the thought and pain away and felt the fragility of the glass in her hand, so very similar to that of her heart. After leaning forward to place it on the table, she stayed like that, elbows on her knees and head hanging forward. Images of soft skin, bruising kisses and breathy moans ran through her mind, followed by snapshots of movie dates, reading in bed, sharing a meal; and she didn’t want to open her eyes; didn’t want those memories to be the only things she had left.

The knock on her door startled her out of her thoughts. She waited for another, but knew it wouldn’t come. The knock was powerful and reverberated through the house; the very walls seemed to hold their breath. It was a loud call to face what had been done and for her to know that from this moment forward, things would be irrevocably different.

Scarlett got up slowly and straightened her back as her hand closed around the knob.

When she opened the door, she was confronted with dark, thick eyebrows, blue eyes and a plump mouth turned down at the corners. His hands were in his pants pockets, the slight twitch of linen giving away the fact that he was clenching and unclenching his fists. Scarlett could see the moment of defeat: his shoulders fell a fraction of an inch and he let out a breath that she was sure emptied his lungs.

He looked her up and down and nodded once. “So, you’re the one sleeping with my wife.”