Foolishly Falling for You

21

Anita

My wife who seems to have forgotten we are still married,

It seems you've forgotten your last name, which seems odd as you fought for it so. Anita Mendoza, the wife of an admirable is not a bad title is it? Now, then, since my only trustworthy deity has abandoned me, I suppose I am certain I will match to death.

I do not fear it. Perhaps it will be the only gift I can present you. The freest of women, I have heard, are those who are widowed or divorced.

I suppose you will leave me now, for another man, a man like your stories. And I supposed you should. It would be best for you; only I would be vexed.

Anita...do you remember our wedding night? We were so young. I find myself flooded with memories of us. They are everywhere. The sunflowers. The moon. The mud we used to plan in. We were so happy, before we understood what betrothed meant. Just two children who loved to play and make a mess of a things. A trait I never grew out of.

Those days hurtled by. And look at us now, oh my. How the gods must have wept for the loss of a love like ours. What it could've been. But the stories that should've been told, were, perhaps.

And ours was not. But I will still think of you, when it rains.

And maybe that's enough. I am coming to terms with it all. When you do not water a plant it cannot grow. When you do not nurture a love, it will die, even more so if you crush it, starve it, deprive it of light at every opportunity.

So I have resolved to free you, my Anita.

But nay, not from my name, not yet. If I make it home, we shall discuss in depth your separation from me legally. For now, enjoy the home we have built, and rest in your peace.

I scoff, and roll on my side. He refuses to just let me be. And why does he have to say such sweet words? Are they even sweet? I feel like my taste of sweetness has left me, all I know now is sourness.

The sunsets in a blaze of glory and I watch it from my window, my thoughts racing. Freedom? He wishes I will forgive him, he wishes we will be together now he wishes for my freedom?

I scoff. Freedom is my second choice. My first was him. I wanted to be chained to him, our fates intertwined. I was desperate for it. My nails sink into my fists, his doctor by the door.

"I fear I cannot continue to lie to your husband, especially when he pays me so handsomely," Dr. Oak says gently, shifting in his place in discomfort.

Dr. Oak is a kind, portly older gentleman, with a mild manner and a deep but quiet voice. If he were not essentially a guardian, watching over me and reporting back to Lance.

He is strong but gentle, a man who truly lives to his name.

"It isn't lying," I inform him, setting the letter down and standing. "Besides, his money is my money. That makes me your boss too."

Dr. Oak adjusts his glasses and heaves a heavy, tired sigh. "I understand the two of you have a...interesting relationship. But these type of things should be discussed between husband and wife."

I smile ruefully, lifting his letter, letting it fall back on my bed. "We are soon to be divorced."

Dr. Oak's face sags in sadness at the mention of it, but I pay him no mind. What does he know? Old men like that hear the word divorce and think of a woman leaving her place. I narrow my eyes. I am going to carve my own place into this world, no matter what he, or anyone else thinks.

I will think of you, when it rains.

How can he say that? How can he write the words I longed for, how dare he? I clench my jaw and wave my hand.

"Leave me be. You are my doctor, are you not? So what's best for your patient."

Dr. Oak sighs. "I know you think it best, Mrs. Mendoza. However...it seems that you and Mr. Mendoza have life yet left in this relationship. And perhaps it would do you some good to finally be able to share the burden of grief."

Share my burden of grief? My burden of grief is not a burden that can be shared. I cannot break it in half and ask him to carry it. Perhaps he'll take the half of my pain and I'll shoulder the rest.

It's simply not possible. It is my grief, my pain, and I sink my fingers deeper into it to keep it. It's all I left. It's mine. It hurts and it burns, and my heart aches with every step that I take with it on my back but it is mine and even if he would share it—and he wouldn't—I will not lose anything else to that man.

How the gods must have wept for the loss of a love like ours.

If the gods wept, I wept even more so, for the loss. But my tears have all but dried.