Wring

He was leaning over the sink with his face in the mirror, pressing the swelling on his cheek when she appeared in the doorway, tears still travelling to her chin.

I’m sorry, she said. He didn’t answer. He found his eyes disturbing, staring back at him, older than he had ever seen them, a crack in the iris here, a yellow stain there. He wanted to scream. He wanted the strike the glass. But his years kept him steady. Those childish reactions were bodies strewn on the path behind him. So many bodies. So many mistakes. So many lost opportunities. He wondered how festering his body would look in a few years on her path. How far into her body count would she have to peer to see his rotting corpse? Not very far, I suppose, he said aloud, confusing her, wringing more tears from her eyes. I’m so sorry, she told him, I didn’t mean to hit you. Yes, you did,  he said. He finally snapped the tether holding his eyes to their reflection and turned to her. You meant everything and so did I.    

illustration by Meredith Marmaduke