Word Count: 338
The morning looks wet. The night spent crying its clouds out leaving the earth rich with deep emotional color. Gray is not gray but a full palette of tints on the bare limbs of trees, the layers of bark, the sky.
I am drained and weary. Last night we spent talking divorce. There is nothing left for me here; the children are grown up and gone, love for him fled long ago. A patience, a tolerance, a caring for another human being had replaced it and lasted a long decade. Resentment has crept its way in.
He is surprised, yet I cannot see how. He says that he never suspected. Over time I’d cut ties, let him know in ways that if he didn’t quite understand, I would clarify. Partnership remained and a family home as long as the children were here. Respect was the rule, yet it started scaling away before the last bird had flown and that bothered me most of all.
I’ve gone through the logistics, the finances, the emotional upheaval of splitting a life into two. We can do it; I know he can though he doesn’t agree, and I have already prepared. Looked forward to, really, though I know that change always takes a toll.
He’s up and I hear his footsteps coming downstairs. Heading to the kitchen, as always. I pour out a single cup of coffee. A small rebellion; I’d always poured his at the same time. Just as he enters, I pull out another cup from the cupboard and pour.
“Whew, I’m still sleepy,” he says. And he kisses me on the cheek. As always. As he’s done nearly every day for years.
“Hey, do we have any English Muffins?” he asks. “I thought I’d make egg sandwiches for breakfast today.”
He’s made breakfast maybe a half dozen times before. He doesn’t get it, I know now. He still doesn’t get it. I look out at the painting beyond the kitchen window over the sink. The colors run into gray.
