“You haven’t cared in over three years….”
The words are spoken at a dining table, bereft of food, as my fingers find play in tiny, loose strings on one corner of an unemployed placemat.
A whoosh of hot breath forces me back against the rungs of an unforgiving maple chair as I absorb the blow, while a corona of dull pain spreads through my sternum.
As I rise, I’m vaguely aware of the uncertainty of my legs, and use a second or two to will them to stillness before I spit, “That is the most ridiculous thing you have ever said to me.” And, as I turn to walk away, fluttering candlelight accents ten smears on the freshly waxed tabletop.
If only, I could have been a little quieter…
If only, I didn’t have an opinion…
If I could hide my feelings…
If I could be a little less intelligent…
If I could sit, quiet, and smiling; always smiling, but quiet.
If I could nod, and smile, agreeably Madonna-like.
Like the portrait of the Madonna; one-dimensional, always smiling, always lovely, always quiet.
If I could have done that…
But, I couldn’t.
And, because knowing I can’t be what you want doesn’t keep me from wanting it for you, I did the only thing I could do.
And now, even that, is not enough…
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
Are We There Yet? 
Ok.
Whole new level – elegant. This is superior writing.