Chapter 4
613 Words
On the morning of the fourth day, I'd just stepped off the bus when Cole came out from behind one of the pillars in front of the office building and cut me off.
His jaw was covered in stubble. He was still wearing the suit from the wedding. The corners of his eyes were shot through with red.
He hadn't known where I'd been these past few days. This was the only place he could wait.
His gaze locked onto my hair, pulled back in a short ponytail, and the new canvas tote on my shoulder.
He grabbed my arm with both hands, grip tight. "Mia, what do you want from me?" His voice was low and strained. "Can't you just come home and talk?"
I didn't pull away. I raised my left hand, laid it over his, found his little finger, and bent it back. One by one, I peeled his fingers off my arm.
The cold, methodical movement stopped him cold. His hand froze in the air between us.
"I don't want anything," I said, meeting his eyes. "I'm done."
He panicked. "Because of one bouquet? Really?"
"It's not about the bouquet."
"Then what? You want a bag? A car? You want to get married? I'll take you to the courthouse right now."
I looked at him and laughed. "Cole, that bracelet you gave me in our first year. It was the same one your ex didn't want. Same line and everything. Three whole streets. Twenty dollars."
His mouth fell open. No sound came out.
"Third year, you handed me a smashed cake and called it a birthday."
I kept going. "Fifth year, I fractured my wrist and you spent the night drinking. You showed up the next afternoon. You and your friends gamed until past midnight while I had a 102-degree fever, and you didn't bring me a single glass of water."
I took a step toward him. "You couldn't even give me something real."
His lips trembled. "Mia... I didn't have money back then... I thought it didn't matter..."
I reached into my coat pocket and took out the last spare key. I dropped it at his feet.
"That's all of them." I turned and walked through the revolving door of the office building.
Cole didn't follow. He stood in the morning rush, staring at the key on the ground.
Half an hour later, Cole let himself back into the sixty-square-meter apartment. He bent down to swap his shoes for slippers. The place was quiet.
He went to the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. The light came on. On the middle shelf, five glass food containers were stacked in a neat row. Each lid had a yellow sticky note.
Monday: Barbecue ribs. Medium heat in the microwave, three minutes. Don't use high.
Tuesday: Chicken with mushrooms. Heat straight through.
Wednesday: Pepper steak. Rice is in the freezer. Take it out and steam it.
Thursday: Beef stew. Remember to thaw it first.
Friday: sautéed vegetables. If the leaves turn yellow, throw it out. Don't eat it and get sick.
Five days. The last five days I had left him before I left.
Every last bit of warmth, sealed away in here.
Cole stood in front of the open fridge. His legs gave out. He sank to the kitchen floor.
He reached in and took out Monday's container of ribs. He didn't go to the microwave. He lifted the lid, picked up a cold rib with his hand, the fat congealed white, and put it in his mouth. He chewed through the cold meat, slow and heavy. His vision blurred. A single tear dropped onto the rim of the container.
- Writer
