It had been a long time, but now he was here. He was back. I was unsure if I wanted to hug him, slam the door in his face or slap him.
“Um, can I come in?” he asked tentatively. I chose none of the three. Instead,
I nodded my head, turned my back with the door wide open and walked to the kitchen like I was sludging through slushy snow with bare feet. I heard the door creak shut as the kettle started to whine. Usually, I would jump because of my noise sensitivity, but the kettle mimicked the shrieking inside my brain. I said the first five words to him that I had said since he broke my heart five years ago.
“Would you like some tea?” Now it was his turn to nod his head. As he kicked off his burgundy Doc Martens, I got out two massive mugs and chai tea bags, then poured the boiling water in. As I watched the color slowly seep into the water, I thought about how my sadness seeped into my entire life. As the tea bags sank and bobbed up, I remember how my counselor described a scale of going up and down, up and down, over and over. As my shaking hands spilled drops of the scorching water into my sock, I remembered how terrible he made me feel. I remembered how I always did everything for him, yet he would leave and come strutting back. I would accept him. I would accept all the terrible things he had done.
“Get the hell out of my house.” I whispered. He laughed.
“What did you say, hon? You’re always so quiet.”
“Don’t call me “hon”. You can’t reserve the right to call me “hon” after what you did. Get the hell out of my house.” My hands were vibrating violently as if I had dipped them into the snow I was trudging through earlier, and I dropped the mugs, water and beautiful cups going everywhere. He shook his head, muttered what was probably an explicit under his breath.
“Whatever. I just came to ask for you back, but now I see you haven’t changed at all.” I stood in front of him shivering, a much stronger stance then I would have took at the end, as he stomped towards the shoe rack, shoved his feet into his shoes and slammed the door.
“I see you haven’t changed either,” I whispered to myself. It was too late, though. He was gone, and would never, if I could help it, be back.