That silences him.
The clock on the wall hums softly.
Rain crawls down the glass.
There is so much unsaid between you it practically has furniture.
Finally he says, “Do you hate me?”
What a breathtakingly male question.
Not because it is manipulative, though maybe a little. Because it centers the emotional weather on him again, even here, even now, after your blouse has been sacrificed to his unfinished life choices. He wants to know if he is a villain. If the narrative has hardened beyond revision. If some part of you still holds him with warmth rather than verdict.
You consider the truth.
“No,” you say at last.
Something in him loosens.
Then you finish.
“I think I see you clearly now.”
That’s worse.
You know it’s worse because his entire expression changes.
Hatred can be negotiated with. Fought. Seduced. Reframed. Clarity is far less generous. Clarity means the curtains are gone and all the flattering shadows with them.
You push away from the table.
“That’s all the time you get.”
He stands too quickly. “Claire, wait.”
You pause at the door.
“There’s one more thing,” he says.
Of course there is.
