By Eliana Guterman
It was cold and I was lonely. A gust of wind blew the pale blue curtains inwards, softly grazing the floor of the almost empty apartment. I stared at the screen of our TV; well, I should say my TV now. I reached slightly for the remote, but he had put it down too far away. I watched the muted report of a devastating flood in China, remembering how he walked in and took the remote from my hand. How he hit the mute button and said he wanted to talk. How he really just wanted to yell. I had known it was coming. Like when the sky gets cloudy and gray and you know it’s going to rain.
He had said he was okay with it. He had given me a second chance when I promised not to do it again. And I didn’t. But really, he wasn’t. Ever since, he asked me things like, “Where are you going?” and “Who are you going there with?” To which I replied with a slight shrug and an “I’m just going out.” It was all my fault, yes, that I know. But what I don’t know is why I never wanted to make it better. Maybe it was because of the way he scratched his left wrist when he was nervous. Or because of the way he always looked up when he lied. Or maybe it was the way he always had that nearly indistinguishable smirk on his face after a long day at the office. Maybe it was the way he always took the remote from my hand.