Touching the scar on my arm, I let my finger trace the line.
The diner reeks of nostalgia, the linoleum is worn, but the coffee in the battered cream-colored cup is hot and strong. I sip, watching the two uniforms place their order and adjust their stools at the counter.
The glass door opens, the bell tinkles merrily, and he walks toward me, pausing, he towers over me, but I stand my ground. He sits in the booth. The table separated us, and he leans forward, reaching for my hands. I pull back, plaster my spine against the vinyl seat, ramrod straight, and drop my fists into my lap. But I won’t look away.
I had forgotten his eyes were blue. If I could forget that, perhaps I can leave behind the rest. Memories flash, slashing red and deep. Tear-stained faces, broken promises, and outright lies will forever live encased by walls.
He says he loves me, and he needs me. He can’t go on without me. The begging begins with words so often repeated that I no longer require the script. I have heard it all before.
“I don’t hate you, it’s just… I don’t need you anymore,” my voice sounds distant, flat and cold.
He speaks from far away, and my ears grow deaf.
“There’s nothing left to say. I won’t go back.”
My bill is paid, the time is now, and I rise. The uniforms nod as I stroll by, and I step through the open door.
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer