“ You ? A promise from you? What a fucking joke !” I lifted my hands in a pacifying gesture. “You know? Fuck yeah, you know, you bitch! Of course you fucking know!” “ You know I won’t believe that? ” he bellowed. “I know that you won’t believe that, but-” “That’s not my intention, Con,” I replied soothingly. We’re finally far from you and happy, and you…” He shook his head furiously, “Fuck, you …” He drew in a massive breath then shouted, “ Gotta show and fuck everything up! ” “Couldn’t leave well enough alone,” he bit out. I hated it but somewhere along the way I had become addicted to it. “You fucking did it,” he snarled, his eyes slits, his fury so visible, so palpable, I could taste it. I arrived at the door, flipped the lock, opened it and looked up at my ex-husband. However, as I did, I found those depths were unending.Īnd three was that he had a right to be angry and I didn’t want to do anything to give him more of a right. I’d spent years plumbing the depths of his wrath. Though how that could be, I couldn’t imagine. He was angry and I didn’t want him angrier. And I knew he was angry enough to keep banging and doing it that hard might cause harm to the door. One was that he was still banging and I liked my door. I hurried to the door for several reasons. I’d know the lines of that body anywhere. I couldn’t see anything but a shadow through the blues, purples and pinks of the stained glass, but I still knew that body shadowed through the glass. I looked to the door with its curving slash of extraordinary stained glass just as a loud banging that was not dulcet in the slightest came on the heels of the bell. Muted chimes that rang dulcetly through the space as if they were precisely what they were, carefully crafted to belong right there. Hearing it then, I was surprised it was just as stunning and elegant as the rest of the house. In buying the house long-distance without looking at anything but photos, I’d obviously not heard my doorbell.
The problem with that was, to do it, I needed to backtrack and rectify past mistakes.Īs if the biggest mistake of all could be conjured by my thoughts, I heard my doorbell ring. I stood in the middle of the huge room, the long, high wall of windows showing a grayed view of the Atlantic Ocean foaming against the cliff rock, my furniture (mostly) where I wanted it, the rest of the space was taken up with boxes stacked high. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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