The Fault In Our Scars

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said.

How will I tell her that worries are unnecessary?

“I didn’t have to.”

How will I tell her I only love her?

“Two years, Jake. I could use some enlightenment to why you did not bother to mention it.”

How will I tell her it was not my fault?

She grabs my arm and the rush of longing and anger in her eyes are killing me. She pulls my shirt up and started tracing the 6-inch long scratch in my chest. Memories of the affair are flashing back.

I push her away. Damn this guilt! I saw her stumble gently but composed her self in an instant. That is very graceful. See, this is her strength that I admire most. I never intended to do it. I love this woman in front of me.

She throws her handbag at my face.


Oh, that did not hurt at all but I guess I will have to act that it did. I make a grunt. She made a disgusted look. Ah. No, that’s not convincing enough. I put my palm in my chest and bend a  little. That did the trick.

“Geez, I’m sorry Jake. Did that hurt?” She was worried.

“Yes baby.” Wow, I can credit myself for some tough acting.

She stood in front of me. Now poker-faced.


Then she left, smiling. And never looked back.



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