A Cage Left Open

Divorce

"I heard it's supposed to get into the nineties tonight." His eyes followed the beads of condensation rolling slowly down the glass.

She made a soft noise, something that sounded like indifference.

"Did you have a good day at work?" Her voice was raspy.

He shrugged. They had been tiptoeing around the papers sitting in front of them for the last few days. He had been tiptoeing around their marriage for the last few years.

"I'm sorry about last night."

He sighed. "Don't apologize. You know it doesn't change anything."

"I know, but..." She trailed off.

"Please don't."

He looked at her. She only somewhat resembled the woman he fell in love with seventeen years ago. He remembered being able to always know what she was thinking about; she used to say he was a mind-reader. He couldn't make sense of her anymore.

"I refuse to give up on you." Her voice was gentle, but determined.

She was simply avoiding what couldn't be stopped. He tried to stop it, tried to fix it, tried to love her a little more, but he couldn't.

"I love you. Doesn't that count for something?" Her voice was more desperate than determined.

"I wish it did."

"I won't sign them."

"Stop playing games. I'm done. Sign the fucking papers."

"Why? So you can walk out? Leave me, leave the life we built?"

Anger rose in him, churning in his stomach. He couldn't take it anymore. He slammed his fist against the table. He saw the beads of water shake and slide off the glass, the vodka and tonic rippling like the lake did as they skipped pebbles across it. It had been their first date.

She looked as though she was drowning. He had been drowning for years.

"I'm so sorry..." Her words came out in a strangled cry.

"I've told you already, don't apologize. You know it won't change anything. Just mail the papers to my lawyer."