I don’t know how long ago I killed the engine. In the winternight’s darkness, my hand rested on the key: a quick turn and I could be out of here, or I could pull out the key, put the chain in my pocket, and do what I came for. Undoing the latch, I crack the door. The lights flood the car’s interior, and an obnoxious bell informs me that the key is still in the ignition, the key my hand still holds.
“O God,” I pray.
Taking the key out, I leave the car, slamming the door, slamming it hard. Gritting my teeth, I wait for my eyes to acclimate. Slowly, the billowing darkness in my vision solidifies into crude outlines. My tentative steps lead me from the car to the front door. I knock. She opens the door immediately, and my hand is left floating in the air as if I were a mime striking an invisible barrier between the two of us.
“I’m going for pizza,” I tell her. She frowns. “Would you come?”
Shaking her head, she spits the words at me, “Going for pizza.”
It’s not a question, not the way she said it. The subtlety of women: in those three words she condensed all the past three years, all the suffering and pain, distilled and concentrated, distributed on her whim. It was as good as her saying: “Michael’s dead. How dare you be happy? Do you not see my veil? Am I not in morning? Go ahead and enjoy life. Some of us haven’t forgotten so quickly.” The problem is, she didn’t say those things. All she said was, “Going for pizza.” After three years, I was tired of subtlety.
“You think I didn’t love him?” I shout. She looks at me as if to say, obviously. “We grew up together. I knew him all of my life. I would have died for him.” I feel my lip trembling, the hot tears breaking down my cheeks. “But I’m not dead, and I’m not going to pretend to be. It would break his heart if he knew—” I swallow, barely able to speak. “If he knew what you’ve become.”
She slapped me, like in the movies. In the movies, this is the point where the man looks back meaningfully. I hope she didn’t get one iota of the meaning behind my look, though. It wasn’t the look of the picture’s hero, at least it didn’t feel like it. It was all hot rage, my body quaking with hate. It was a murderous look, I’m sure.
“If you want to join me,” I managed to say. “You’ll know where I’ll be.”
Tale Told 