Gray Light

Well prepared with a combative air
Eyes glaring, lips tight
Ready to strike
And waiting
For me.

I fix a glass of whiskey
Always a neat double
start fire to a cigarette
awaiting
the words.

“Do you still love me,” she asks
So direct, no time wasted
Regardless of the answer
I keep looking
Straight up in her eyes.

There is a point that all people know
When no answer
Becomes the answer
the challenge in this situation
Is knowing where
That point
Begins.

I fail the first wave because
She is already agitated.
Not wanting to spend time in silence
She poses a second question:
“Well, do you love her?”

Is this going to be worth it, I think
To myself
We both want to look away now
Scales, like those of justice, swaying
Preparing for the smallest
Distribution change
To create
The end.

Just as she starts to break the stare
I say something unexpected
“We’ve done a lot for each other”
And without hesitation
She begins to cry.
Knowing I will continue
To justify
Or conclude
My statement.

“We aren’t doing each other any good;
Haven’t been for over a year.”
It’s excruciating for both of us
But that which is real:
The truth
Eventually wins
No matter how long
It takes.

Still insisting, she wants an answer
To her question.
She won’t believe me either way.
But my response directly impacts
The number of household objects
That will be
Carefully thrown
my direction.

From the corner of my eye
I see the clothes iron perched
Threateningly on its board
God freaking help me
If she chooses to throw that again.
Sure, it’s not plugged in.
But it becomes my challenge
To find the softest
Most non-breakable item
And get it in her hands
Discretely.

While I try to think
She makes her own decision
And comes out swinging
Directionless, glancing blows
Oh fuck, she’s got the coffee pot
Quickly, the wall is splattered
With glass fragments and the remains
Of our morning brew.
And for one split second I wonder if
One of the prevailing memories
10 years from now will be
the sound of her voice; her cries
emphasized by a dripping caffeine scent
over whiskey.

I know it will hurt even more
In the morning
Most of us have been there before.
I don’t hate her
Never really will

Her mind is racing; head is throbbing
She frees the conversation
For now.
And I sit thinking about how surreal
The morning will seem
Every thought, every nuance
Shadowed by an emotional gray light
That dampens every second
We spend together
Until we are
Apart.