“You don’t have to say it. I already know,” he said, picking nervously at the small collections of grit under his fingernails.
The fact of the matter was that he actually didn’t know — for sure. His reasoning skills, however, were such that it was a perfectly logical for what he believed to be true. He had more or less accepted that truth, but a nagging — not to mention naïve and denial-ridden — part of him had steadfastly held on to the notion that, as much as he believed it, so long as there was no confirmation, he didn’t have to believe it if he didn’t want to.
This was no longer an option. The blanket had been thrown off and all illusions shattered. She hadn’t listened — she’d said it anyway.
The revelation of the truth was much more unceremonious than he was expecting. Nothing was thrown, nothing was punched. Not even a tear. Just a biting tension in his stomach, slightly jittery knees and a rush of blood to the face.
What he expected to be a knockout blow amounted to little more than a sucker-punch to the gut. His knees had buckled, but he hadn't gone down. As he regained his composure, everything around him slowed down. His mind cycled nearly simultaneously through endless scenarios of how the rest of the ordeal would conclude.
There were many things he could say, some he would mean, some he wouldn’t. Some would only be out of vengeance.
As reality came flooding back into the room, he decided he wasn’t going to say anything. He was going to take a dive. After letting out the seemingly obligatory -- and painfully cliché -- verbal jab, he let her go. There was no dramatic chase down the hall way or shouts out the window, no emotional phone calls.
He closed the door and laid on his bed staring blankly at the ceiling, noticing that the tension in his stomach had not subsided. As some sort of masochistic proof of the emotional exertion he’d just experienced, he loosely held his hand in front of him to find it quivering. Frustrated, he clinched and relaxed his fist, rattled his wrist and laid his hand back onto his chest.
He simply had no desire to fight this fight anymore. Sometime long before tonight he’d realized he was no longer fighting the fight because he wanted to, but rather he was fighting it merely so he could say that he won. And that just wasn’t a cause worth fighting for. Not anymore.
The fact of the matter was that he actually didn’t know — for sure. His reasoning skills, however, were such that it was a perfectly logical for what he believed to be true. He had more or less accepted that truth, but a nagging — not to mention naïve and denial-ridden — part of him had steadfastly held on to the notion that, as much as he believed it, so long as there was no confirmation, he didn’t have to believe it if he didn’t want to.
This was no longer an option. The blanket had been thrown off and all illusions shattered. She hadn’t listened — she’d said it anyway.
The revelation of the truth was much more unceremonious than he was expecting. Nothing was thrown, nothing was punched. Not even a tear. Just a biting tension in his stomach, slightly jittery knees and a rush of blood to the face.
What he expected to be a knockout blow amounted to little more than a sucker-punch to the gut. His knees had buckled, but he hadn't gone down. As he regained his composure, everything around him slowed down. His mind cycled nearly simultaneously through endless scenarios of how the rest of the ordeal would conclude.
There were many things he could say, some he would mean, some he wouldn’t. Some would only be out of vengeance.
As reality came flooding back into the room, he decided he wasn’t going to say anything. He was going to take a dive. After letting out the seemingly obligatory -- and painfully cliché -- verbal jab, he let her go. There was no dramatic chase down the hall way or shouts out the window, no emotional phone calls.
He closed the door and laid on his bed staring blankly at the ceiling, noticing that the tension in his stomach had not subsided. As some sort of masochistic proof of the emotional exertion he’d just experienced, he loosely held his hand in front of him to find it quivering. Frustrated, he clinched and relaxed his fist, rattled his wrist and laid his hand back onto his chest.
He simply had no desire to fight this fight anymore. Sometime long before tonight he’d realized he was no longer fighting the fight because he wanted to, but rather he was fighting it merely so he could say that he won. And that just wasn’t a cause worth fighting for. Not anymore.
posted by That guy | 6:57 PM
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