She Returns

"That woman sent me an SMS today."

My mind drew a blank. "Which woman?" I asked stupidly.

"That one," he said to me quietly.

I stared at the traffic lights ahead, hoping they'd turn green soon. Hoping that it will distract us from this conversation. It seems as if his car got too stifling, too small, all of a sudden.

Yet, it stubbornly remained red.

"Oh, her," I said. "What did she want?"

Honestly, I didn't really want to know what she wanted. Especially from him. What else could she want from him?

A picture of her smiling into the camera made a driveby in my mind's eye. She's pretty, I can't deny that. She's even sugary sweet. She looks like someone I'd be friends with. If circumstances were different, I might even like her.

Except that I don't. I haven't even met her yet. I can't like her and I won't.

I put on a plastic smile that proved to be convincing enough for him. "Well, I'm sure she wants to be friends with you again. Try to be nice to her then," I said without looking at him.

"It'll take time," he mumbled.

I glanced at him quickly. He remained expressionless, and I was dying to know what he was thinking.

He dropped me home that night. And for the first time in many, many months, I felt like someone had just ripped my heart out and stomped on it, many, many times. It didn't feel good at all.

I sat down in bed, motionless, expressionless. And then I cried.