History Repeats Itself Again

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
He comes home, she knows where he's been.

Submitted: May 30, 2007

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Submitted: May 30, 2007



As the door swings shut at your back, you look up and see her in the doorway to the kitchen. She leans on the doorframe as if she's been waiting for you. You see her eyes; those sad, sad eyes.

She knows. You don't know how, but she does.

You want to say something. You want to tell her something so she'll stop looking at you like that, but you don't have any words. You've tried to come up with them; you've wracked your brain searching for them, but you know words won't change the reality.

You hold your keys in your hand, your eyes cast around the room like a drowning man searching for a life preserver. There is nothing. No one can help you. You look back to the doorway.

Those sad eyes shimmer behind a layer of unshed tears. She shakes her head, turns, and walks away.

Your shoulders slump, your head hangs, your breath rushes out in one long whoosh. You know where this leads. You know the end of this road. You've walked it before. Nothing can change the outcome, but you know you will try.

You follow her into the kitchen. She stands in front of the sink, hands on the edge of the counter, head hanging low, a curtain of hair concealing her face. She isn't moving, staring blindly into the truth of the disposal.

You approach. You're right behind her. You don't know what to do. You reach out to touch her, but something stops your hand. You cannot touch her. You've shattered the e intimacy the two of you shared. Touching is too personal for you now.

Your hand brushes her arm, bracing her, trying to touch more than just skin, trying to rekindle something inside her other than the disappointment and anger that now flare within her. Her whole body tenses at your touch and she utters a single word like a bullet.


Your hand drops. You step back. You falter. Motion, speech, even thought are beyond you.

She turns and you see the tears tracing lines down her face, the eyes are no longer just sad. There's betrayal, anger, possibly hated. She says nothing. She lets you see it in her eyes. You don't need to hear, she doesn't need to speak.

She's right in front of you, but she's already gone.

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