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The Ways in Which I Don’t Forgive You

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1)
You came back just as I always thought you would. You pulled back the floral white and pink covers that your mom bought us and slid in next to me. The whiskey stench drifted to me as you tried to pull me into your arms. My face was pressed against your chest and you whispered “it’s okay, it’s okay” as my heart started to heave with compressed sobs.

2)
You scribbled an apology that sounded a whole lot like a lost love letter on the back of a receipt for the local liquor store. It said baby six times but my name wasn’t on it. You slid it under the bathroom door where I sat with my back facing you. I picked up the tear stained scribbles and cried harder.

3)
Red lipstick. Everywhere. On your collar, on our pillows, everything white and perfect was ruined. I washed your shirts three times; they were still stained with red.

4)
Twelve voicemails pleading me to answer the phone sat in my mailbox. I glanced at my phone, seeing your name and instead focused back towards my girls. I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned, coming into contact with your blue eyes framed by my favorite black glasses. My stomach clenched and I couldn’t speak, but you said the words for me anyway. “I’m sorry.” Spilled out of your mouth and it took everything in me not to laugh. Those were the only words you knew how to say.

5)
I walked across the parking lot towards my little blue car and concentrated on breathing after every step. In. Out. In. Out. I could do this. I saw you with your arms wrapped around a tiny girl. You smirked at me and my heart squeezed itself. A smirk fluttered across your full lips. I could do this. I could do this. I opened my door and slid onto the still-hot from the sun leather and turned the engine on. I drove away, watching your smirk fall from the lack of my reaction. I could do this.



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