His head, ensconced as it was, inside his man’s hands, gleamed, inviting her to study its irregular surface, an assortment of irregularly shaped freckles, and a day’s growth. She remembered how it felt; and his scent.
“I don’t get it.” He shuffled his running shoes. “I just don’t get it.”
“Of course you do!” She leaned across the table, stretching her arms the width.
“It’s just so much bullshit…”
He straightened and reached for a cigarette, keeping his eyes lowered.
“Then walk away….just walk away!”
“How do you do that? Walk away…” He paused to suck on his cigarette. “How do you just walk away?”
And then, “I wish I was more like you…”
The words swam between them.
She felt them on her eyes, before she stood,
and, walked away.
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
Are We There Yet? 