The pavement was wet, so were the trees outside, the glass window in front of which she sat, and her cheeks. A white, knitted sweater hung on her, too big and loose; it was all she wore. The padding on the bay window was spotted red from the wine in her glass, half an inch of ash crumbled on the pillow she hugged tight between her breasts, but she never noticed. She pulled from the cigarette as the door opened. A man wearing a three-piece suit walked in, his hair was short and professional, a square chin, and clear blue eyes. He set his briefcase down when she called from across the condo.
“Where have you been?”
“Not now Claire…” He started to work the tie off his neck. “I’m tired okay? Not tonight, please.”
Her bare feet staggered through the room, pounding her heels on the hardwood with a thud.
“Answer the fucking question.” She demanded, as she came up to him, close enough to smell any guilt hiding behind his perfect skin.
“Your drunk, Claire.”
“Stop avoiding the question.” Her eyes were red and puffy, she had been crying for hours, days, months – hell, their entire marriage.
“Can you please just move out of my way? You’re acting crazy.”
“STOP. Stop making this about me! Quit turning things around on people and face your shit!”
He continued to ignore her and started packing his bags. She continued screaming and continued getting louder, her questions never ceased; and her mind, at the lack of answers, began to slowly wither.
“I’m gonna do it John, I swear I’m gonna do it.” Tears and drool, and sweat, and regret were all running down her face.
“And you say and I’m one who tries to manipulate the situation. Look at you; it’s not even loaded.”
He shut the door behind him and started walking. The sound of the gun shook him; he stopped, sighed and kept walking wearing the smile of a newly rich man.