He’s con­founded at the sit­u­a­tion. One second she was wrapped about his arm, snug­gled up tight and secure; the great­est feel­ing in the world, so far as he can tell. How quickly that was shat­tered, like a del­i­cate glass so uncer­e­mo­ni­ously thrown to the ground, the peace was splin­tered into a mil­lion shards; irrepara­bly dam­aged. He didn’t see it coming, that’s for sure. He didn’t even say any­thing this time, though maybe that was the prob­lem. Maybe he didn–

She grabs him by the wrist, and ungra­ciously wrenches him from his con­tem­pla­tion. Her nails are dig­ging into his wrist now and she doesn’t care. Let him feel the pain, maybe then they would be on the same page.

She’s just as con­fused as him, though. She got so upset so quickly that she forgot what she could have been so enraged about. Tears glis­ten in her eyes like the gleam of sun­light refracted from a stiletto, beau­ti­ful yet unde­ni­ably dan­ger­ous. She can’t back down now. If she did, she would be wrong. She would be show­ing weak­ness. She would be vul­ner­a­ble, exposed for him to see the real her. She wasn’t ready to do that; not for him. Not for any man. She had done that before, and the ending had resulted in her heart being ripped into grue­some con­fetti, thrown about in a parade of her own sad­ness. No, he didn’t need to see her like that. He wouldn’t see the inner-​most her. He didn’t deserve that from her. She had to keep up this embar­rass­ing tirade, losing face with all these strangers that didn’t even know her, doubt­fully even cared. She had to keep going, she just ha–

He removes her taloned, man­i­cured nails from his wrist. He’s winc­ing against the pain he feels inside. The gashes on his wrist are noth­ing com­pared to the hurt his heart is now assailed with. He’s been through this before with her. He would fold, he always did so to save him­self the trou­ble of deal­ing with the real prob­lem and her issues. He always assumed she would open up to him in time. How much time does she really need though? She’s always so defen­sive and always seems to have a pen­chant for rival­ing the tec­tonic plates for the damage she could, and invari­ably would, cause. This wasn’t the first time this hap­pened, but this would be the last. His heart felt like an old rug: worn down, stained with one to many acci­dents, and show­ing wear from too many verbal beat­ings. He can do better then this, and he knows it.

She’s sob­bing now. She always did so when he started to show spine, to show promise of being an actual man. She wasn’t ready for that yet, and she knew that the tears would give him pause. Stop him in his tracks better then any phys­i­cal chains could do, they always had. The tears run down her blotchy cheeks, forg­ing yet another trail of deceit down the fabric of their rela­tion­ship. She needed him. She knew it. She’d never tell him that though, and so the tears flow slowly, in a sickly majes­tic rivulet.

He’s look­ing away now. He never could face her tears, it made him feel ter­ri­ble when­ever he even thought of it. This time was dif­fer­ent, it had to be. Enough was enough. This was it, and he knew it. This time it will end dif­fer­ently. This time he would tell her what he felt, how he felt. He glances at her and sees the tears. He wavers for a moment. It feels like he’s stand­ing on the edge of a precipice with no vis­i­ble bottom. Then it hap­pens. It starts from his heart, burst­ing for­ward like a dam in a storm that cannot be held back by mere bricks and mortar. It climbs up his throat and he can’t stop it, wouldn’t stop it if he could. This needed to happen, for both of them. It explodes from his mouth in a quiet hur­ri­cane of words and feel­ings. Both inter­twined with such reck­less aban­don that nei­ther can be dis­tin­guished from the other. He screams at her with­out scream­ing, he assaults her with his indig­ni­ties with­out volume. In real­ity, his voice is barely above a cracked, sob­bing whis­per, but his ears can barely take the tumul­tuous thun­der that is his agony. His words a com­pi­la­tion of his mal­formed feel­ings for her.

She’s stunned. This was wrong, so very wrong. He was sup­posed to break down and apol­o­gize, he was sup­posed to beg for for­give­ness, and he was sup­posed to fold like a cheap hand in poker. This was wrong. Instead of her coming out the victor of this sense­less battle, she is now beset by a wall of truths. She can’t tune out what he’s saying; her body has betrayed her. Her ears force her to listen to all that she has wrought and it twists her insides in a manner more becom­ing of a neglected blender. She’s losing, and there is noth­ing she can do this time. Her tears glis­ten to a man blind to her sor­rows. Her voice falls on the ears of a man deaf­ened from one too many audi­ble assaults. She’s lost.

He turns from her, having said his peace. There is noth­ing left in this car­cass of a rela­tion­ship. Let the car­rion feed­ers make short work of what was left of that dero­gated past. He was done with this atro­cious mess. He was done with the agony. He was done with her.

She wouldn’t let it end like this. How dare he walk away from her, leav­ing her like this? She won’t allow it! She reaches out and grabs his arm, turns him around with a strength borne of her scorn. She would set him straight. She would make him feel her pain.

He glares at her. She dis­gusts him now, and he won’t put up with this any­more. He didn’t deserve it, and wouldn’t take yet another serv­ing of a dinner long gone rancid.

She slaps him with the back of her hand, putting all her frus­tra­tion behind it, all her malice behind it. Every­thing she had, she put into that one con­nec­tion. He stum­bles, being so unpre­pared for the blow. He catches him­self and stands tall. She goes to slap him again, but he’s faster. He doesn’t care what kind of scene he’s in now, nor does he care about the bystanders. He winds up and returns the unwel­come gift to her just as righteously.

She hits the floor, stunned. He hit her, and she couldn’t bring her mind to com­pre­hend it. He was so kind and sen­si­tive. He was every­thing she wanted and needed, and yet she had brought him to that.

He’s shak­ing. The urge to vomit valiantly tries to over­whelm him, but he man­ages to main­tain a sham­bling sem­blance of com­po­sure. He turns around and walks out her life. Out of the life he knew. He holds his cheek and smiles. That was that for him. The final cur­tain has drawn for this tragedy, and his part in the play was over. He could move on and he would move on; he deserved that. She deserved that

She’s shak­ing. He was gone, and she was left with noth­ing. The bystanders watch her as she sobs to no one and noth­ing. She weeps for her­self. The final cur­tain has drawn for this tragedy, and her part too was over. She could move on but wouldn’t. She wouldn’t give him the sat­is­fac­tion of moving on. He didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve that.

Then the bystanders lose inter­est and move on. They didn’t deserve that.