One Last Drink

I sat across from him, holding the frosted glass casually in my hand, trying for a sophistication he knew I didn't possess. I crossed my legs and saw him glance down as the short black skirt slid up my thighs. His eyes lingered for a moment and then snapped up.

"You look great," his tone was that of an old friend, rather than a lover. I felt my body strain forward searching for the old heat. When had it disappeared?

"Thanks," I had spent days agonizing over what to wear. Everything, from the pink lace bra to the strappy black sandals that crossed across my cherry red toenails was new and designed to show off a body newly tanned and toned.

I sent him a bright smile praying he wouldn't hear my pounding heart. With easy movements, I forced myself to lean back into my chair, the wicker pressing roughly into my arms.

I raised the glass to my mouth, willing my hands to stop shaking, and took a long sip. Icy vodka and cranberry juice slid down my throat. "So," I said, pretending that I didn't care, "what have you been up to?"

He leaned back, mirroring my pose. I kept the smile pasted on my face as he talked. Grateful that sunglasses hid my eyes, I drank him in, cataloging the changes.

I nodded my head and laughed at all the right times. I was the ideal ex-girlfriend, lightly flirting, no hint of desperation, teasing him about his dating life. I played my part perfectly.

Inside, beneath the nerves, anger boiled. Why? I pushed down the question bubbling to my lips. I took another drink to cool the anger, to show that I didn't care, to play the game I hated.

"And how have you been?" He looked suddenly serious. His tone strained. He feels guilty. Good.

I turned my smile up a notch, the brightness now vying a Vegas billboard. "I've been great!" I waved my hand. "Really busy." I prattled on, talking about friends and trips while he nodded. I wondered if he was studying me as I had studied him. If he'd noticed all the changes that six months of Wheat Thins and vodka, dancing and sunbathing had produced.

Our conversation faded to silence. We sat, looking out over the ocean. I thought of the speeches I'd written for this moment. The anger deep inside urged me to yell, scream, cause the scene he'd always avoided.

A cool breeze ruffled my hair, goosebumps popping up on my arms. He noticed. He always noticed the small discomforts. It was when big issues arose that he retreated and disappeared.

"It's getting late," he said, reaching for his wallet.

"It was great seeing you," I said, disappointed. Disappointed in myself for not saying what needed to be said. Disappointed in him for not acknowledging the hurt.

Walking across the parking lot, he tossed it out, almost as an afterthought. "I'm sorry for the way I did it. You deserved better. I should have been better. But you have to realize now it never would have worked."

The old lump lodged in my throat. My smile dimmed. He wrapped his arms around me, enveloping me in his scent and sending years of memories to drown me. I allowed myself to cling for a moment as his words hung in the air.

Stepping back, I channeled every ounce of the anger coursing through my blood, every night spent crying, every day spent as a ghost and clutched it, feeling it vibrate through my body, surging to the surface.

And then I released it, not in an explosion, but in a smile. Real now. He is who he is and he'll never change.

"We'll have to do this again," I said, lying. I straightened my shoulders, "I really need to go. I've got a date." I turned from the man I had planned to marry and walked away.

Forgiveness? It tasted like vodka, burning at first and then a smooth ride to warmth.

This post was inspired by The Red Dress Club Remembe(red) memoir prompt: forgiveness. For the record? That's a tougher prompt than you may think. And, per usual, concrit is always welcomed.

On an unrelated note, I'm also over at Makes Fun today giving away a book. And no. It's not a romance novel. Please. I keep all of those.