The weight
of her eyes
was
something to marvel.
They were awe inspiring and
simultaneously
terrifying.
A simmering
cauldron.
“What’s
wrong,” he asked.
“Nothing,”
she’d reply.
“Are you
sure? You look
unhappy, or
sad, or something,” he’d say.
“I’m fine,”
she’d reply.
Her eyes
were teary but
icy, stony,
marbled.
“I said I’m
fine,” she’d mutter.
“Oh, I didn’t
ask. I took your
word for it,”
he’d say.
“You’re a
jerk,” she’d blurt.
He’d stand
there in confused
silence wondering
where the
hell this
came from. Where her
love went so
quickly.
“Baby, I did
ask before, if you’re
alright,” he’d
stammer.
“I said I’m
fine. But you’re a jerk,”
she’d say.
“I don’t
understand,” he’d say.
“Of course
you don’t. You never
understand.
You’re a blockhead,”
she’d
accuse.
He stands
there, arms out at his sides,
a perpetual
shrug across his shoulders.
“I’m going
to go I think,” he’d say and
gather his
jacket and keys.
“Fine. Good,”
she’d say and fold her
arms across
her chest and slip
into the
depths of the couch.
Her eyes
melt as he leaves.
Last night’s
make-up
streaming
down her cheeks.
She didn’t
get that he didn’t
get it.
He didn’t get
why she wouldn’t
get it. She
didn’t get why he didn’t
get that
there was no getting it.
He walked to
his car wondering if
he should go
back.
She hoped he
would,
but would
never say it.
She opened a
magazine from the table
to a
celebrity wedding. She wiped the
sorrow from
the corners of her eyes.
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