I was seeing him after four long years, my heart skipped a beat as he walked past the table I was sitting on. He still looked very handsome, and carried the same demeanour. As he made it to the counter of the coffee shop, he placed his order.
A few minutes later his restlessness kicked in. He played a little with his phone, tapped his foot, knuckled the table before he finally asked, "Excuse me, could you hurry up?"
"Lady, unlike you, I have got to be somewhere and have actual work to do, so make sure I get my coffee today," his tone ruder this time.
The nastiness reached its peak when the coffee was finally place before him, "Oh thank the good lords, I was beginning to wonder if women can handle making coffee or not, anymore," His outrageously hypocritical ego had finally spoken. For someone who couldn't convince himself to get up and get himself a glass of water the comment was highly unfair.
His words had made me go back to the day I had left him, the day I had packed myself and left the house, the day my daughter saw his father for the last time. The day I had ended our six years long marriage.
I had ended my unspoken, unheard slavery four years and yet the wounds were too real, and too raw to be talked about all over again.
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