| She waited for him, sitting by the window in the dark. She waited. As she waited, her heart grew cold, cold as the coffee sitting beside her. That coffee that was like his eyes, smooth, brown, and endless. When the light hit them, they reflected his soul, bits of green and gold swimming in the richness of the darkness. Oh, but those eyes, they were lying eyes, seducing eyes, but most of all, they were the eyes that someone else looked into- many someone else's.
He thought she didn't know. The late nights and the second glances, just a figment of her imagination. Him loving anyone else was ridiculous. Yes, it was ridiculous, but him holding someone else, kissing someone else, making someone else melt with his dark eyes- that was not ridiculous. No, that was true. The scent of their perfume clung to his clothes like leeches and the look on his face, that blank stare and charming smile never told a thing. Those lying eyes. So now, she sits by the window in the dark and waits for him to creep in. Tonight, she will catch him. Tonight, she will break the chain. Tonight, it will end. One way or another, it will end. She waits, the coffee growing colder, but it doesn't matter. It isn't the coffee's warmth she wants. Not anymore. The stars sparkle overhead and a slant of light can be seen as his car comes pulling into the drive, slow and steady, creeping. She hears the key in the door as he turns it slowly, not wanting the lock to click, breaking the silence of the night. He walks in and she watches him, moving like ink, slipping through the hall. "Who was she tonight?" His body went rigid as he turned slowly on his heel, peering into the darkness. "Who was she?" She asked again, her voice calm as if she had asked him how his day was or what he had for dinner. "I...I don't know what you're talking about, honey..." "Yes, you do." She watched him as those dark eyes grew darker and his face held its smooth stillness. She looked at him, wondering what she had looked like. Did she have dark hair, like her own, and watch him in wonder or was she some bright and bubbly blonde, hanging onto his every word? But then, she knew. He never went for the blonde ones. That was her answer. She was dark haired, like his dark eyes, like his dark secrets. He stood in silence, no doubt forming his response in his mind with just the right words that should make her forgive it all, forget it all. This time, those words would not work...not this time. "Honey, you know I could never love another...How many times do I have to explain myself to you! How could you doubt me?" He asked, his voice dripping with false hurt, as if her words had any effect on him. Nodding once, she fell to his words with a sigh. Never again would he have to explain himself to her. Never again. That much she knew, but it was not the love she worried about. It was the lust that had severed the bond between them. "You never had to explain yourself and you do not have to tonight." She says quietly and rises, walking to him as he drapes his arm around her shoulder. It was not really explaining anyway...just conjuring lies. "Come to bed, love," he whispers against her hair. "It's late." She nods. It is late. Too late. Walking with him, she looks at all the things around her. The lace tablecloth his grandmother gave them, the mirror in the hall where she stood many times, dressing for him. No more of that, she thought. No more. They climbed into bed, the smell of faint perfume lingering in his hair. A woman's shampoo, she thought. The smell...it was obvious. She hated these delicate smells on her husband, but soon, she would not know those scents that filled her mind. His arms came around her, but the warmth was gone. She drifted to sleep in his arms of chiseled stone, cold as ice. His arms were ice, for they numbed her to the core. She felt nothing but determination for what she planned to do. As he slept, she walked downstairs to the cold coffee cup beside the chair where she spent so many nights. That coffee, like his lying, damnable eyes. She sat down and drank it slowly, letting it take effect as it trickled down her throat. She leaned back against the chair and smiled, drifting away. ------------------- He woke to the light streaming through the curtains and groaned, turning toward her and pulling the covers over his head. As his hand came down, he felt the cold sheets, silky against his skin and opened his eyes. She was not there. He rose from the bed, his skin tingling when the cold air hit him and walked on, past the bathroom and down the stairs. He searched in all the rooms, but she was not there. With a fear building in the back of his mind, he walked to the front of the house. The chair and the window, she loved so much. He had bought that chair for her just years before, before the lies. He walked into the room and saw her. She was sleeping, he thought as he walked over, kneeling by her side. Looking closer, he saw her hands slack, the coffee cup lying on the floor where it had fallen. Her eyes were closed and her skin had paled. He touched her hand. Cold. As the horror ran through him and across his spine, he looked to the side and saw a note, his name written in her delicate hand. "I sit here now in the chair you gave me, because it held me more times than you did. I look out this window no more, because you stopped coming home to me. I drink this cold coffee, because it is how your touch has become. But above all else my love, I swallow this poison, like the look on your face and the light in your lying eyes. You have killed me and forever you will remember me. Goodbye, my love. Goodbye." She signed the note, her final vow. And in that letter of words so fine, he read her final goodbye. He shook her, calling her name, but she never moved. He looked at her, her lips parted and tinted with a hazy blue, and took her hand in his, crying softly against it. Her green eyes did not look on him and her dark hair did not shine. He was alone, left with no choice but to betray her again, to seek comfort in his lies. He would think of her, every moment as he watched the days slip by. He would remember her. He was damned in his memories. |
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