The Choice

I stare at the heap of old, greasy looking french fries stacked high on the plate in front of me, and nervously brush the crumbs off my fingers as I consider the question I've been asked. I glance around the restaurant, briefly skimming over the cheesy western decor and the old men chatting with the saggy waitresses in their dirty wife beaters; it's all just too cliche.

This is in American Fork? I think.

My brief scan ends at a pair of ice-blue eyes still looking into mine, staring with the kind of intensity I'd all but forgotten they were capable of. A reminder that he is still waiting for me to answer his question.

Why did we break up?

As I reconsider the question, the irony of the sudden role reversal silences me. It takes me back to another beautiful, sunny day in another restaurant where we sat across the table from each other, just like this, and I stared into his eyes, and I nervously brushed the crumbs from my fingers, and I asked him, why did we break up?

I looked into his blue eyes, certain that he could see that I was dying inside, that my whole life was crumbling. And he sat there and looked at me, with pity in his eyes.

Now I'm looking at him, that same question hanging in the silence between us.

I can see that he is dying inside, that his whole life is crumbling.

I look at him, and I have nothing to say. Nothing, but what he had said to me.

I don't know.

I don't know, I say, but it's right.

His pained blue eyes finally release me from their hold. I notice that I have gotten crumbs on my fingers again. I brush them off. I pick up the sandwich on my plate, reconsider, then put it back down. I have crumbs on my fingers.

Now he wants to know where we stand with each other. It's a valid concern, I think. Yes, darling. Let's determine the relationship, one last time. For old time's sake, shall we?

brush, brush, brush,

Should we still see each other? Should we still call, text, email? He says he can tell that I don't want to see him any more. I tell him that I couldn't begin to heal until I learned to let go.

I don't know which will hurt worse, he says.
Giving you up now, or losing you bit by bit, watching you slowly pull away from me.

We hold each others gaze, him seeking reassurance, both of us knowing that I can't give it. Choose the one that hurts the shortest, I tell him.

He sits next to me, a thousand miles away, falling apart at the seems, staring at his hands. I stare at his eyes. Our first baby was going to be a little girl, named Alice. She was going to have light, curly hair and her daddy's eyes; that same, piercing ice blue...

Look away. Breathe in. Breathe out. Brush the crumbs off your fingers.

So this is the last time we will see each other.

Yes.

A pause.

I should probably go now.

I stand up to see him out. He asks if he can hug me. I answer by wrapping my arms around him, one last time. It's the familiar embrace that has communicated all our goodbyes, hellos, and in-betweens for years.

We cling to each other. A minute passes. The other diners politely avert their eyes from the scene taking place amidst them. I don't let go; I want him to be able to know that in the very end, when it came right down to it, he was the one to let go, to take the first step into the rest of his life without us. Two minutes pass. I lose track of time. I let go.

As I pull away, I plant a single kiss on the side of his face. He gently turns my face with his hand, and places a single chaste kiss on my own, tear-stained cheek.

I will always love you, he whispers in my ear.

Nothing will ever change that. 

.....................................................................................................................................................

I lay across the grass. I can see the sun through my eyelids. I can feel it drying my face, warming me, lighting the world and bringing the earth back to life.

And I know that, for once, I made the choice that will hurt the shortest.