“Get out!” That was all she could say in shock & anger, a brief malevolence the morning after to her lover who wanted out because he was allegedly overwhelmed? But overwhelmed by what? By her spirit? Her intelligence? Her power? He had deemed it wiser to tell his truth, his side of truth, so that in the telling, she would understand his case, his tragic heart, that it was not a one-way street…. But she wouldn’t hear of it, much less render her truth, her side of truth. She had flung his easels out, slammed shut the door, & in the afternoon glare of the sun that filtered through the blinds, had buried her face in the soft, cold pillow. Did she fail to heed the silent warnings? Did she believe in fairy tales? Upon waking from wakefulness, she would fish her menthol from the case, light it, then stub it into the tray, like some diva in a B-movie: she knew, of course, what had happened, that these things happen…. She knew that no one really masters the game. Yes, there may be 50 ways, according to Paul Simon, to leave your lover, & many more to get him back. But she also knew, this catechism of the heart, that all things must pass….
From Quadratic Silences, 1991