Flaw Salad

I drove to the bridge last night. Do you remember it? We stopped there one evening on a walk. You wanted to tell me something, but you weren’t sure how. I was patient, afraid. You hadn’t been right for some time, and I remember the nights of worry as you retreated inward, ever closer to your center, so far from my grasp.

Earlier that week, we made chicken cacciatore, and I’d gulped wine to push back tears as we chewed in silence. I felt I was losing you.

When you paused on the bridge to look at the creek, I gazed into the water, its contents obscured by the setting orange sun. How long we stayed, I couldn’t say. It was five minutes, maybe, or twenty. Time was impossible. I was suspended in anticipation, waiting for a blow.

You turned to me, then, and your eyes implored me before your voice escaped your lips. You looked lost, frightened, and the love I felt for you in that moment has yet to be rivaled—in intensity, in urgency, in enormity.

“Please don’t give up on me,” you said, and I pulled you into a desperate embrace. Never, never, never.

But weeks wore on, and I still couldn’t reach you. What I’d hoped would be a new beginning was really the beginning of the end. Our nights together became nights alone, isolated beside each other, and my flood of feelings drained to a trickle.

I lied to you on the bridge when I said I’d fight alongside you, when I swore I’d be with you, when I promised a love that could sustain.

When I drove there last night and stared into the now-clear water, I saw the sum total of my failures. I saw you drowning. I saw myself drifting away. And I hated you for your shameless need.