She told him it was over.
Sure, she loved him, but she just wasn’t in love with him if that began to make sense.
He looked down at his lap and blinked a little to hide the welling tears. Then rising without a word, he marched upstairs.
She knew he didn’t want her to follow, and she lingered there in his living room, knowing this was a heartless way to end the relationship but God, was there ever a right way? She plucked his housekey from her keychain and wondered if he’d return the key to her flat.
And still there was the lingering doubt if she was making a serious mistake.
But as she dragged her feet homeward, she kept insisting to herself, the guilt and doubt would soon ease up, she’d get over it, he would too.
*
But the pain didn’t lessen, it only got worse. Waking up in the mornings, there was a nanosecond when she felt fine, but then she remembered, aware that the other side of the bed was empty.
At work she’d hear a good joke or catch up on gossip and then felt the disappointment that he wasn’t waiting at home for her to share it with him.
She’d lay on her sofa at nights and think of how much she still missed him, recalling his genius methods of trying new things, seeing plays she’d never heard of, visiting towns she’d normally never go to. And she liked making him listen to music and read books he usually sniffed at, which he’d enjoy although he’d never admit it.
Plus, he had all but forced her to submit her CV to the better firm, coached her on being decent in interviews and without him she wouldn’t have advanced up the ladder. She had in turn, gotten him to quit smoking and to go to the gym more often.
They didn’t admit it, but they brought out the best in each other, didn’t they?
Christ almighty. Had she indeed made a serious mistake?
That Friday, she had told herself she’d take a train out of town and stay over at her parents’ place but instead, she, ignoring all taxis and busses, had walked slowly in the rain, letting her feet step unconsciously towards his home.
A recurring nightmare she had, was her peering into his living room window to find him curled up on the sofa with another woman.
But what did she want from him? Was he Mr Right or rather Mr Good Enough? She honestly couldn’t say.
Soaking wet, she stood on his doorstep with the rain, cold, thick and numbing, drenched her, as she let one dead fist knock at his door and she thought “Oh please God, is this the right choice?”
And the door opened.
