Tabitha Stay With Me Extra: Quality

She doesn’t turn around. She is ten feet away, her back to me, the hood of her yellow raincoat already dark with water. The suitcase in her hand is the small one, the overnight bag she used to pack for her mother’s house every other weekend. It looks wrong in the rain. Too small for a whole life.

“Tabitha, stay with me.”

“I’ll be late,” I say. “I’ll mess up. I’ll probably leave the mugs on the windowsill until next Tuesday. But I’ll mean it. I swear to God, Tabitha. I’ll mean it until I get it right.” tabitha stay with me

That was twelve years ago. Twelve years of shared toothbrushes and silent arguments about the thermostat. Twelve years of her singing off-key while chopping onions, of me leaving coffee mugs on the windowsill until they grew a small forest of mold. We built a whole vocabulary of silence: the tightness in her jaw meaning I’m fine when she wasn’t, the way I’d tap my wedding ring against a glass meaning I’m sorry before I could say the words. She doesn’t turn around

She finally turns. Her face is pale, wet, and I can’t tell if it’s rain or tears. Maybe both. Maybe that’s the same thing now. It looks wrong in the rain