Flashcards On The Wall

Chapter 42: Glass

Some days are harder than others. Today is one of those. It's driving me crazy. Gabriel came over before we meet up with Tash and Lo (Tash's idea) for dinner but today the stillness is intolerable. I can't stand having him so close and not here at all. I head to the kitchen with the excuse that I wanted some water.

"Hey," Gabriel says.

I gasp when I hear him behind me. The glass I was holding shatters on the floor. I look down at the wet floor covered in broken pieces but don't move.

Gabriel continues, "Everything all right?"

It takes me a few seconds to answer, "I didn't hear you walk up."

"Sorry, you were taking a while," he explains.

I wave my hand telling him it's okay and squat down to clean up the mess. The biggest pieces of glass are the easiest to pick up, so I begin with those. I place them on my left palm. To help me, Gabriel also lowers himself to the floor but again I'm caught off guard by his closeness to me. I make a fist, holding my hand closed a little too tight and pushing the sharpest piece into my palm. Opening my hand, I see the blood on the glass, and for a moment just watch it. After a few seconds, I release the pieces into the trash. I run the water from the faucet and watch as it changes colors, waiting patiently until I stop bleeding. I get a paper towel, wrap it around my hand and squeeze tight. At that point I reach for the sweeper and continue cleaning the mess.

"Want me to-" Gabriel starts.

"I got it," I say before he gets a chance to finish.

"You look like you're having trouble," he comments.

"Just let me, okay?" I know I sound irritated.

He does. When I finally face Gabriel again he's reentering the room, holding the alcohol and cotton balls he found in the bathroom, "You don't care now but later on it will drive you crazy if you don't clean it up."

"Thank you," I say more calmly now.

"We don't have to go tonight if you aren't up for it," he adds.

What he really means is if it's too soon.

"I can do one meal," I tell him.

"You haven't even been back to the restaurant," he says.

"Let me deal with that," I answer.

"Fine," he responds.

"I wish you wouldn't look at me like that," I say.

"Like what?" he asks.

"Like you feel sorry for me. I just got a little overwhelmed. It happens. Please let it go."

"What happens?" he asks.

Do I tell him?

"We used to sit on that couch. I would lean on you. Your arm would be around me; the other hand would hold mine. Today I'm in the same spot I've been in countless times. Only this time you're making sure that the space between us is enough so that I'm comfortable and I appreciate it, but I'm just there thinking that it's not the way it's supposed to be," I say.

"I'm trying to be careful," he replies, "The other day when I accidently brushed up against you, you nearly jumped out of your skin. I could tell you were freaking out inside and I felt terrible. I got too close. Too soon."

"Stop saying that! I'm working on it. I'm trying," I answer, "You think I don't see how it. How you look at me every time something reminds me of him. You become someone detached but you try to play it off. Even when you act like you aren't, I can feel it, your anger."