On That Day

          He stared up at her from the ground, completely dumbstruck. Suddenly aware of his left knee digging into the asphalt beneath him, he clicked the jewelry box shut, dropped his arms and fumbled with the box to return it to the darkness of his pocket. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks as the back of his throat tightened; a cry threatened to escape as he pushed his forearm to thigh, bringing him to an awkward stance. He looked past her, through her, avoiding her tear-filled eyes, certain it would trigger the familiar prickle behind his own. Never in his life, had he wished more than he did right now, to just disappear. “How could I have been so goddamn foolish?” he thought as they made their way back to his car; she was crying now and her stifled sobs caused him to dig his fingernails into his palms. Her tears made him angry, furious. “How could I have not known? Why did I keep trying so hard?” he thought as the sun began its descent and the evening breeze blew colder. He quickened his pace, no longer caring about her heels on the slick pavement and her certain clumsiness.

          Finally, they reached the car. Her head was down, hair falling around her like a poorly behaved child, “Babe, I..I’m so sorry. I never—”

          He didn’t mean to, but he slammed the door he had just opened. For the first time since asking her, he met her eyes. He laughed—a curt, short, humorless sound. “You’re sorry? You tell me you can’t marry me because you’ve been fooling around with my boss and you’re just—you’re sorry?” He practically spat the last word; he had never felt so many emotions at once. “How long?” he asked through gritted teeth, not breaking eye contact. She looked away as her mascara ran faster, thicker, down her face. “DAMMIT!! I said how long?!” On the last two words he had slapped his hands onto the hood of his beat-up Toyota in syncopation. She flinched—her shoulders jerking up in a way he had never seen. He would never physically hurt her, ever, but on this day, in this moment, he also didn’t care that he had startled her.

          “I…never meant to…I didn’t…it all happened so fast.” The words escaped her mouth, barely above a whisper. He had loved her more than anyone in his life; he knew he did after their third date, four years ago. Now, he stared at her like he was seeing her for the first time; a stranger he’d thought he’d known. The future, once nearly tangible in its images: them, together buying a house, her, smiling, cradling their first-born in her arms, him, kissing her forehead in bedtime ritual—began to fade, tear, dissipate. Now, though, all he could think about was the whiskey he’d promised her he’d give up and the last, unopened bottle hidden in the back of their closet…

Written for Master of Arts in Professional Creative Nonfiction Writing at the University of Denver; Fall ’20