Little Gift

I can tell by the last sip that it still hasn't helped you. I want to hold your hand and tell you it is okay, but I know better now. I catch a glimpse of your ravenous blue eyes before looking back down at my hand. The ghost of the bite mark still snakes its way around the crook of my hand.

"Drink," you say, though I know you are looking at the barista bringing someone coffee.

I take a sip though the cold makes me shudder. I'd told you once that I hated cold coffee but as soon as I was your girlfriend, all that I'd told you before then was forgotten and everything I've said since was ignored. Your leg is shaking the whole table, so I clear my throat quietly and hold onto the cup to keep the cold mocha from sloshing all over the table. I feel your eyes dart to me when you sense me holding my cup.

"It won't fall. Let it go."

I oblige, but only for a second before my anxiety takes over and I just use my hand as a coaster. You are perturbed by this, but the present situation makes it impossible for you to give me any thought.

"What are you going to do about it?" you say eventually, though it feels more like a growl or a snarl.

I shrug, but already knowing it isn't good enough, qualify it quickly. "Do you want it?"

"No."

"Then I'll say I don't want it."

"But do you?"

It's a test, one that I've failed many times before and felt. I shrugged nonchalantly, though the alternative to keeping it left shards of my heart pricking my stomach.

"I don't. We're better off without it."

"Good, then you know what to do."

Without warning, you get up and leave. I can feel my eyelids get heavy. Even though I know I don't want you, you still have a power over me. I sip the coffee again, and stare at the walls of the coffee shop. Wood planks like the ones I used to inevitably end up on when we lived together. A chilll like when you decided to ice me out when I denied you sex. The barista, who is totally your type, looking at something small you gave her like the waitress you impregnated did days before she interrupted what bit of happiness I'd imagined in our relationship. I tear a hanging piece of skin on my lip and look at my phone. The alimony has hit. I gave you the better half of eight years of my life and all I get is $750 a month and vague depressive phone calls when you're upset with whatever you're sleeping with this week. And now this.

I leave a small tip, mainly out of obligation, and walk outside. I light a cigarette and nurse it as I walk. The wind is blowing and the homeless are asking me for a light. I oblige. That's how we met, me asking you for a light outside of the bar where you first laid your hands on me. We'd talked for at least an hour about why I was drinking (my mother had been an asshole again) and why you were smoking (baby mama drama), and I ended up waking up in your apartment, thus starting the torment that was our relationship. The fights, the lies, the cheating, the beatings... I put the nub of the cigarette out and pulled another out. I was only halfway home, and already, I was ready to give up on going home and just find a nice alley to spend the night.

That was how our first few arguments ended, with you locking me out and me sleeping on a bench outside or at a neighbor's house. It was fruitless, you and I being together, and I knew it. Especailly with you being so much older and having so much more experience in life than me. Yet, I thought it was sweet of you to get me back in school (though I missed so many days from being in the hospital so often) and thought you were a gentleman from the first time you took me into your home. You even agreed to keep coming over until the social worker's visits stopped and I was able to have it. But now, because I refused you last night, you have once again pulled the rug out from under me. It wasn't enough to get it taken from me. You wanted everyone to know that I was some young whore that hurt you and turned your own kids against me. It was a new low, even for you.

I get to my building, and Amelia is standing there, holding it. I can see from her face she is already struggling and its screaming isn't helping. Silently, I invite her inside. I press the butt onto the side of the building and throw it into the pond in the ashtray. As soon as it is inside, it quiets. My sister eases it into my arms and takes a seat on the loveseat next to the old blood stain. She speaks, but I don't listen, cpativated by its blue eyes and familiar red face. I try to tell her that hte case is still open, but she says she doesn't care and that she can't handle him hurting it anymore.

I half listen then agree, and I can tell her heart calmed immediately. She smiles, and thanks me, then rushes out, leaving me with no time to even learn its name. It looks like you, which both disgusts and intrigues me. A self-deprecating smirk spreads across my face. This is why you didn't want me to keep it. This is the dirty little secret of the week. Though my heart is numb for you, its wiggling in my arms warms my corpse-like torso. Its goofy smile and rosy cheeks are infectious, and I realize that without even trying, it has melted my heart. The bruises on its face and old scabs only make me love it more.

Someday, I will tell you all of this in the heat of an argument. But for now, it needs me. And, for the first time in nine years, I smile.