This Conversation Is Over

Joe's hand shook as he let the phone drop from his ear. It landed on the floor with a loud clatter and broke open. The battery fell out and slid across the tiled kitchen floor, stopped just shy of the cupboard under the sink. Joe was furious. His lips were parched, as though from the heat he felt bubbling under his collar, so he walked over to the sink, grabbed the least dirty-looking glass and filled it with cold water from the tap. Within seconds, he had gulped down the contents. He filled the glass and drank again, more slowly this time. When he finished, he exhaled a trembly breath and glared at his refrigerator door. He carefully placed the glass in the sink, then lumbered over to the fridge, eyes staring intently at one point in the upper right-hand corner. There, stuck against the cold stainless steel, was a magnetized photo. It was a picture of them, him and Sephira, that they had had taken at a mundane tourist spot during their summer vacation in London. It had been a moment too stupendous and unexpected to ignore. While strolling along the promenade at Waterloo, a man with a camera took a picture of them before they even realized it, then charged them for five pounds for it. "I'll throw you in the magnet for free," he said, displaying his yellow teeth in a big grin. Sephira had thrown her head back and laughed, thoroughly enjoying the incredulity of it all. Joe remembered how sexy he thought her neck had looked at that moment, reflecting the light of the setting sun. He paid the five dollars, and stuffed the picture into his jacket pocket as they walked away, giggling, heads close together, arms around one another.

Now he took the picture off the fridge door and stared at it. She had been so beautiful that day. She was all he ever looked at when the photo caught his eye as he went to the fridge for a cold beer, or lunch meat for his work sandwiches. But now, he looked more closely. In the picture, they were holding hands. Joe was looking straight ahead, probably admiring the view, or gazing at the people that loitered on the promenade: the tourists, the artists, the peddlers and pickpockets. Sephira was looking at the Thames. Again, he was struck by her beauty. She seemed regal, with her hair pulled up into a woolly bun over her long neck, her butterscotch skin glowing amber in the sun. Her cardigan, slung over her shoulders, threatened to slip off and reveal her taut shoulders. He frowned slightly as he noticed something he had never seen before - Sephira biting her bottom lip. He started a little in his shock, taken aback by the suddenness of the revelation. Biting her lip. He tried to peer into her eyes, turned the picture a little, trying to get a better angle. He couldn't be sure, but now he felt that he saw longing in her gaze. A desire for something more. Something better.

Red flashed before his eyes, and he hurriedly crumpled the photo in his right hand. He reflexively stuck it in his pants pocket. So even then she had been unhappy. Or perhaps not unhappy, but dissatisfied. As if that was any better. Suddenly, his throat felt tight and dry, and his vision became blurry. He swallowed, coughed. He quickly ran his hand over his face and looked around, as though embarrassed that anyone could have seen him in this his moment of weakness.

There was a half-empty bottle of wine on the kitchen counter. When he took the cork out, it made a dull pop. He took a swig, then leaned against the counter, deep in thought, though not thinking anything in particular. Visions of Sephira passed through his mind, memories of their laughter and spontaneity, the way she arched her back when he ran his hands over the curves of her body. He winced as though the thought caused him physical pain, doubled over and ran his fingers through his curly brown hair. He would not, could not - must not - cry. Now he sat on the cold floor, knees tucked into his chest, bottle of wine in his right hand, his left hand fingering the hem of his jeans. Another swig from the bottle, a longer one this time. So she was unhappy. She blamed him for her unhappiness, but how, he thought, could he have known? Yesterday, last week, last month - everything had seemed fine. They had always seemed fine. Of course, they had the occassional argument, as every couple does, but they always talked things through. Sephira had always been rational, had always seen things his way. She valued communication as much as he did, as the vehicle for achieving normalcy in their relationship. So when had she become eaten up with dissatisfaction? When had he ceased to be enough?

He couldn't think. The wine was beginning to blunt the edges of his mind. He shook his head to clear it, and up sprung the words from the last conversation. Words loosely connected, each yielding powers of destruction that can only be likened to a landmine or a grenade. "I can't do this...I'm not myself...we deserve to be happy. I don't love you anymore, Joe." It felt like there was an elephant sitting on his chest. He had already begun gasping for air when he realized that his face was wet with tears. He grabbed his hair in two fists, panting, trying to calm himself. He had knocked over the bottle and the red wine spreading fast over the floor, making tiny rivulets in the cracks between the tiles. Joe didn't notice. He was quiet now, thinking of the silence that followed Sephira's declaration. "I don't love you anymore, Joe." Like a punch in his gut, like a sharp blade slowly, painfully, slicing across his throat. He hadn't said anything, because if he opened his mouth, it would have been to beg her not to leave him, and he wasn't prepared to give up that much. They remained in silence for a full minute. It felt like eternity had come knocking at their door. Joe subconsciously thought, if we don't speak, maybe the silence will undo what she just said. He listened to Sephira breathing on the other end of the line. It was low, but steady. She was sure of what she was doing. When she spoke again, all she said was, "Bye." Then there was a click, and the line went dead.

He pressed his eyes together tightly and lay down, his shirt and hair mopping up spilled wine. Bye. They had spent three full years together, a solid couple, and her parting words were, "Bye. I don't love you anymore." Click. Conversation over. And now his longing for the woman he loved, irrigated by his tears, produced the words he could not say. He wept as they poured out of him, as he cried out for Sephira, pleading with her to stay with him, to love him. But Sephira had long hung up the phone, and he lay alone in his kitchen, distraught, broken. Unloved.

*This clearly has nothing to do with my previous installments. However, I am in a funky mood and writing melodramatic trash tends to be cathartic for me. Still working on an end to Ahmed's story. Hope this wasn't too much of a distraction. Or a bore.