“Nothing is more dangerous than solitude: there our imagination, always disposed to rise, taking a new flight on the wings of fancy, pictures to us a chain of beings of whom we seem the most inferior. All things appear greater than they really are, and all seem superior to us,” he read aloud to her from a book.
“Did you mark this out just to annoy me, Nathan?” she asked.
“No. I found the usage of words remarkable,” he said.
“Oh. You are not fooling anyone,” she retorted.
“We are all imperfect Anne. You need to stop running and start facing the music,” he said.
“I needed time to deal with it,” she replied.
“Time is understandable. But you were gone for ten months. You cannot expect everything to be the same once you return,” he said.
“Have you moved on?” she screamed.
“It has been ten months Anne. What did you expect?” he cried.
“Understanding. Forgiveness. Acceptance,” she said, calmly.
“Did you ever think it is not fair to me? That I deserved better?” he said.
“But it was about me. I got pregnant. I had to abort the baby,” she said.
“Immaculate conception was it?” he screamed.
“No,” she murmured.
“You cannot blame yourself. You cannot always leave me stranded outside those walls you build. Clueless as to what went wrong. You need to talk Anne. Not just through texts,” he said.
“I can do that now. I needed to be someplace where no one knew,” she said.
“Was that place not inside your own head?” he asked.
She didn’t reply. He stared angrily at her shriveled face; she stared at her feet.
The silence between them made itself comfortable as he picked up his bag and walked out. She never followed him.