You tried your best not to look at me.
That sneer, like you had a foul smell under your nose.
I recall that look even when first laying eyes on you,
as I walked you through quality training videos.
That snobbish look that you still carried on your face.
I asked him,”What do you do for fun?”
“Nothing. She doesn’t have fun.”
We sat in a funeral home on a couch together.
Her arms folded and avoiding my gaze like the plague.
I watched as she took notes.
Your voice replays “So practical. Too practical.
So sensible it makes her insane.”
I asked, “What did she have that I didn’t?”
We were rounding the ramp onto I15. No cars in sight. A silence fell as you composed yourself. The strip mall lights shining on your face. I am looking at you out of the corner of my eye and through the rearview mirror.
“You are everything I want. We rock out and go on adventures. We get down together and have fun. We can just hang out and be for hours. We can be silly. She will never be that person.” You pause, “You are everything. It was always you… But she gets me emotionally.”
This is the part where you realize you cannot have your cake and eat it too.
I tell people that we are complete opposites.
Tall and short.
Upper and lower class.
East side and West.
Practical versus passionate.
The duality of the man we loved as he also chose his women.
Our relationships; I had him in life. You had him in death.
I should thank you because I did not have the strength to see him through.
My body would have been next to his.
Tragic and untimely deaths of lovers that perhaps should have never existed.
We sat in the room as I wailed loudly. Louder than anyone else. My face buried into Mama’s breast.
My Dad sits to my left.
I see your red blotchy face across the room from me.
Your restraint was moderately impressive.
Tears had yet to fall on your face.
I walk across the room and stand in front of you.
You look up. I see you do not know what to do.
I think you were expecting me to hit you.
I reach out my hand and calmly state, “I am sorry for your loss.”
You break. Your sobs no longer controllable.
Your eyes look into mine with fear and guilt.
You reach back to me.
Your tears staining your bright red cheeks, “I am sorry for your loss.”
This is the part where I wonder, is it harder to be the widow or the man’s mistake?