Gray Skied Afternoon

"Well", he said, not looking at me, rather staring at some far distance, hands on his sides. "Here we are."

"Yeah," I muttered softly. "I guess so."

It was a gray skied afternoon. A single streak of tangerine hung aloft the dark. We were sitting side by side in a bench that stood beside a flowing river.

Looking up at him, I saw a dark flicker cross his eyes. What was I expecting? I couldn't be sure whether this was directed at him or myself. I wanted so badly to reach across and touch his face, his skin in some way, but sanity kept me at bay. Just as soon as darkness covered us, I realized he’s breaking up with me.

He fell into a bout of I-don't-knows and nothings. That was always something that had surprised me, his inability to discuss emotions, feelings, although I've always thought that he was the sensitive one. But his moments of "crying" -- when his eyes would turn red but no liquid would drop out -- I knew that there was something behind his tough yet easy-going exterior that radiated a deep set pain, a feeling that he expressed with wanderlust due to his inability to understand his own worth. It was this that hurt, the most often, while his anger left nothing but traces of residue in the air.

I stared at him, briefly, simultaneously contemplating and seeing, for the first time, who he was. In any normal situation, my heart would have been splattered, hurled in an attempt to gain his attention, or rather his affection, again. There would have been pieces of ceramic coffee mug littering the concrete floor, my unimaginative dark roast seeping on corners. I would have felt that tension in my back, piercing between my shoulder blades, as I pulsed angrily with silent frustration, aimed at myself and everything orbiting me. But clearly this wasn't normal, because here we were, sitting quietly, everything tangible still intact.

He glanced at me, unaffectionately, a smear of frustration creating a line, splitting us in two sides. For a split second I wanted him to take back his words, to say he’s sorry, that he made a mistake Why would he possibly let me go? What did I do wrong? But there was something so believable, so easy about his voice that even now I couldn't fathom. I unclasped my hands and intertwined them with his own, his fingertips, and – against every stubborn fiber of my being – smiled at him.

It was a sad smile, don't get me wrong, which was most likely the only normal reaction in this situation. But in reality, I should have learned long ago not to expect “normal reactions” when it came to him. In my deepest of hearts, where I often kept my unadmittable, I knew that this moment was a long time coming. In fact, I had been contemplating about its imminence. And now it has come. My voice was shaking in a way that saddened me and left me strangely despondent, my pulse quickening.

But then his right hand were intertwined with my left hand, bracing the both of us, his fingers making white indents in my skin, and a choked sob rose at the back of my throat. The friction burned my skin.

Not yet, I thought intensely, my hands still locked in his. I need this. Please.

On the verge of his “how it will never work” mantra being repeated for the third time, I let the desire I had originally come with mix with the ache of knowing I had to let go.

He pulled back, either too soon or a second too late, his hands sliding carefully from mine and back to his sides. I caught a moment of stillness in his demeanor, a flicker of rawness, which was cut short by the ease back into his smile.

"Ready?" He was trying to sound casual, but I could see a strained sense of hope playing through his mouth. So I let him off the hook, rubbing my fingertips briefly. I nodded, raised my eyes and fixated firmly on his. There will be no more tears, I thought, realizing I wasn't so much convincing myself as acknowledging that a decision had passed. There would be no more tears.

All the while I wanted to get back to him, to freeze the moment, to get back to our point of reference, but I stopped myself for what’s the point of trying to fight for someone to stay, when all he wanted to do was leave?

I rubbed my tired eyes out of habit, and rose from the bench. We walked together for a moment and he took me home.

NB. I know this is insufferable. Thanks for reading it anyway. By the way this post is inspired by this song.