It had been five minutes since either of them had spoken. She was monitoring the digital clock on that old electric stove they were supposed to upgrade months ago. Once her eyes locked on those numbers, they seemed to speed up. Maybe it was because she wanted him to say something, and the more time passed, the more dismissed she felt. The more used. The more foolish. If only he would stop pretending. Tell her how sorry he was, and then they could break down together, maybe collapse to the floor and cry. Maybe he would tell her how he regretted everything, and she would forgive him, and things would be right between them, and they would laugh about it on their 10th wedding anniversary; admit how silly they were back then. But those numbers kept changing, and time kept moving, and the sentiment never surfaced.
"Well?" She gripped his arm, trying to get him to at least acknowledge her. He barely moved at her touch, and she caught a glimpse of him rolling his eyes.
She knew it was his head game. His way to make her feel like she was the crazy one. His cell phone vibrated, and his eyes became transfixed on it, never deviating. She tried to steal a glance at the screen, but he closed it down and shoved it into his jacket pocket, then casually picked up the television remote and started flicking through channels. Didn't he know his cocky posturing was only more incensing?
For some reason, she still wanted to hear his explanation, maybe even needed to, a small part of her wanting to believe his account was truthful. Despite her need, he provided no further explanation. Instead, heaving a loud, exaggerated sigh, he shook his head, like somehow, he had a right to be irritated. Turning the television off, he tossed the remote control on the coffee table and turned towards her.
"Let me ask you something." He cocked his head to the side, ever so slightly. "Why do you have to be sooo insecure?"
Before she knew it, before she had a chance to consider a rational response, her hand was passing across his face. Then a second time. By her third attempt, he caught her by the wrist, eyes wide.
"What the hell is your problem?" he asked, slinging her arm away. She stood there indignant, just as he had been moments earlier, feeling like she was justified in her reaction. His words and what most would consider emotional cruelty through the years were the backdrop of what incited her rage. But moments later, the anger disappeared, and regret poured over her. She resisted the urge to take him into her arms and tell him how sorry she was, although nothing in her disposition suggested she wanted to.
Instead, her piercing eyes didn't waver; her face still void of any remorse. He pressed his lips together hard and shook his head, obviously looking for some degree of contrition from her. Seeing none, he snatched his keys from the key hook and walked out of the condo, slamming the door so hard, she thought it might fly off the hinges.