I’d been sorting the news methodically in my head, trying to assert the reality into my present. Driving was just distracting enough to keep me thinking, in hopes of infiltrating the part of me that feels, the part of me on the brink of combustion. When I set the parking brake and looked at him long enough to see the shadow of concern in his eyes, heard his question ringing in the silence, all my composure escaped me.
So solid in my standing, I melted the moment I opened my mouth to respond. As if the vocalization of the facts made them inescapable. He let me fall into him as I drowned in my tears. Suddenly, his presence became a physiological need. I clung to him with the desire to never let go. I needed to feel accompanied. His arms held me with the strength that my legs lacked. Something about the way he cradled my head in his hands and pressed his forehead to mine, made me feel less emotionally crippled.
I really believed he loved me then. All my inhibitions abandoned me, and I let myself be vulnerable in his arms. It didn’t last long enough. I thanked him for not leaving me to myself, and he said that I could not be alone as long as he lived. It seems a cruel joke now, a hollow promise. My emotions obscured my vision of him that day. For a minute I thought I could trust in him, and his arms, and his hopeful words, and his careful caresses. Some fool he made of me. He could be beside me, and I know I’d be every bit as lonely as I was when he was gone.