He had only been gone for fifteen or twenty minutes when she found the messages. Having no intention of reading his private mail, for despite all things she had respect for him, she sat down at her computer to check her own email.
For whatever reason, he had left his account up and running. Perhaps he had no idea that she ever used the computer, but she did. She had to use it when he was out or asleep. And as her eyes scanned the screen searching for the "log out" icon, her gaze rolled over a name or two she didn't recognize.
The truth always appears more violent in black and white.
Her moments at the computer that morning seemed an eternity, her eyes unable to pull back, retreat. She watched the lies and the truth spiral before her, overlapping, going up and down like a spring. She wanted to hide - wanted to scream - wanted to reach into the computer and shred the evidence so even she could never view it again.
But the truth has a damning way of staying permanent.
Numbness took her, that in and out sparkling feeling that always reminded her of her own offenses, her own Achille's heal.
In his exposure, she too felt more vulnerable, more open for wounding.
Tipping back in the chair, she allowed but one tear to escape. It seemed appropriate to let it roll all the way. She then got up, got her purse, and headed for her front door. As she reached the parking lot, she took her phone and dialed the one number she hoped he'd recognize.
Yes, it's this bad. Yes, this your one shot to make it okay.
No answer.
Just the ridiculous automated voicemail message. Nothing personal. Nothing his.
She drove off, her scar tissue thickening, knowing she had only but a few soft spots left.
No comments:
Post a Comment