He had been into detectives lately.
Movies, clothing, books.
He had even incorporated them into his own writing.
That coupled with a few interesting tidbits of conversation between them made her, suspicious.
Just as well.
If he was suspicious of her then what rational, what reasoning, would she have to not be suspicious of him, in return.
What does ‘trust’ even mean?
It must vary depending on the people involved: the situation, the relationship?
Either way, it was as a shattered orb between then.
Mutual, emcompassing, pulverized.
Dust, upon the ground.
Perhaps, her suspicion came from guilt over the many mistakes she had made.
Perhaps, it was because she saw herself as weak.
Desperately seeking connection.
Open and vulnerable.
Subject to manipulation, especially from those who had her trust.
She meant well, but these were not necessarily, positive character traits. She suffered.
Maybe, she had always been this way.
It would explain the emotional termoil that seemed to follow her through life.
His accusatory e-mail, months ago, and the more recent, highly cryptic message, denying all contact with her, cast the pain of their end, his distain, and the foolish choices she had made, into stark relief.
It had been a difficult two weeks, or maybe three.
Her perception of time had become, lackadaisical, at best.
She had always been characteristically late to events. Those closest to her had come to accept it as her ‘normal’.
But, there was definitely a change now.
She didn’t even attempt to schedule anymore.
Letting feelings and impulses guide her. Irresponsible, yes.
Tho, it did feel more genuine that way.
This eccentric trait did not appear to disturb her life too much.
So long as she still spent 15 hours a week at her part-time job, shuttled the kids to & from school and kept her bills paid.
Things looks controlled, from an outside perspective.
They were anything but..
Lately, she had a lot of time to think.
Likely, too much.
The phrase, ‘Idle Hands Are The Devil’s Play Things’ flickered through her mind.
She mused, lost in thought..
Fingering a small bottle of vodka.
Absent-mindedly considering whether she should portion it, or not.
How many weeks ago did she unexcusably force her kids into the arms of her ex-husband, extending his weekend visit?
An unapologetic action taken to escape responsibility, for a moment, so she could drive to a house outside of town in a fit of sobs, cigarettes, screams, and prayer.
I had worked.
She had arrived just in time to catch him leaving his drive, the interaction happening only with seconds to spare.
He had, reluctantly, agreed to turn around and talk.
They met outside the house.
She leaned heavily on the bumper of her vehicle.
Then, as emotions rose, relagated herself to the hard rocky drive itself.
Her part was to cry and beg to have him back in her life.
The hatred, the scathing remarks, the inability to even speak to her, the refusal to receive her messages, felt, in her mind, like a small section of hell.
His part was a set of ultimatums that would define his presence, or lack of, in her life, from that point forward.
It was unfair, by standard terms.
But, not wholy unprecedented, considering the issues they had been through..
My life, Now. 