11.30.2014 Journal Prompt

Image from Love Actually
Image from Love Actually

November 30, 2014: All they could not say.

One Reply to “11.30.2014 Journal Prompt”

  1. They sit quiet in the car. Not even the radio is on to break the silence that is between them, solid as stone. He is driving and she sits beside him, looking out of her window, not looking at him. He clears his throat, as though he might speak. She does not turn to him. She knows he has nothing to say, that there is nothing he could say, nothing that would make a difference.

    He hates her sometimes and other times he doesn’t. Other times he sees her across a busy room and it is like the first time. He watches her, without immediately being seen. He says her name under his breath, soft as whisper, soft as prayer, and there is an ache inside him then. He wants to signal to her, so that she knows he is there, so she knows he is watching her; in days before he would have done, but now he does not.

    And it is the same for her. She tells herself it is. She makes believe that they have something that is worth saving and she catches him looking at her then. She can see the pain and the longing and the love all bound up together and she does not know how they can ever be separated again. They both look away then, for there is the other thing: the thing that turns his love to hate and makes her indifferent to him.

    He hates her sometimes. That way she has of making him feel the burden of his guilt as an unbearable weight on him. Not a word spoken between them, not so much as a look, and in the silence that is there in the car, or anywhere, lurks the memory of the day it all changed. He has no right to hate her, for the blame is all his. That’s what he says to himself. It was his mistake and his transgression. He hates himself then, and that is as it should be, he thinks. But then another voice in his head begins to make excuses, says that she was different before that day, that she was indifferent even then when there was no reason for her to be.

    It shouldn’t be this hard, he thinks. He clears his throat again, but he does not find the words or even the shape that those words should be. He grips the steering wheel and his knuckles whiten and the grip hurts. He sucks in air, holds it inside and then blows it out in a slow pursed soundless whistle.

    She hears him but she does not turn to him. Fuck, she says in her head. Fuck it all to hell. It doesn’t mean anything what she says in her head, but she says it all the same. More and more these days she says it. Fuck it all to hell. The world passing is all a blur on the other side of her window. She is hot and she feels a little dizzy from looking and she rests her head against the glass, against the cold that cools and stings both at the same time. She tastes the bitter gall of sick in her mouth; she swallows and it sticks in her throat, and she wants him to stop the car. Still she does not turn to him.

    He leans forward and switches the radio on, turns the sudden volume down a little so that it is just sound without definition. He clears his throat again, the third time that he’s done that. She sighs, and in her head it is all fuck it all to hell and back. And maybe there is no way past this thing and they are only fooling themselves to think that there is – maybe.

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