âTaking a cup of coffee is not the same as stealing a bank account. The list goes on. I donât understand why you would do this to me. After all these years⌠after everything⌠you would divorce me like this?â His voice trembled, though whether from anger or fear he couldnât tell.
âI donât need this anymore,â she said. âItâs too much. I canât stand the thought of losing you again⌠not after this.â
Not after this. The words hovered, echoing, twisting inside him. The other woman, the heartbreak of being left, the desperate hope of being chosen againâit all pressed at the edges of his mind, blurring with memories he wasnât sure he could trust.
Outside, banners for Holocaust Remembrance Day flapped in the wind at the Jewish Community Center across the streetâ he could see it from his window. They seemed almost alive, watching him and mocking as they flapped. Heâd seen the exhibit already, photography of piles of shoes and hair, the gas chambers, the ovens, the scheduled dates for survivors to share their story. The weight of it all pressed into his chest, as did the emptiness that filled the apartment.Â
âWhy do we try so hard to end this?â he said. âIt feels like we just got started. Why say goodbye so easily?â
She didnât answerâor maybe she did, but it was drowned beneath the pounding of his own thoughts. He imagined her sigh, the disappointment, the quiet fury. I canât stand the sight of you anymore. I wish you would just go. The words werenât hersâthey were his, projected, imagined, real-feeling, and impossible to ignore.
Finally, a real voice: âItâs just⌠if you hadnât reached out to her, none of this would have happened.â
He pictured her shrugging, sipping coffee, calm, untouchable. And yet in his mind, the cup was shattered on the floor, splashing over the stacks of financial statements, over the carefully organized books of her fatherâs business. I didnât trust you anymore, he imagined himself shouting. Everything I gave you⌠gone.
He left, slamming the doorâbut was it him, or the echo of him? The apartment seemed to tilt, the banners outside flapping like wings, the past and present colliding in a dizzying blur. And somewhere in the room, maybe in the smell of burnt coffee or the uneven stacks of paper, he felt the sting of loss, both real and imagined, folding over itself endlessly.
