Crash

They had nothing to say to each other as they sat at the kitchen table in those early morning hours.

She cupped her hands around a steamy mug of coffee, her glazed eyes staring into the dark liquid.

He crossed and uncrossed his legs, still clothed in sweatpants, while fidgeting with the morning’s newspaper. He was only skimming the headlines—too many thoughts were flowing through his brain to comprehend much else.

On the wall opposite the table, above the sink, the clock ticked, ticked, ticked. The coffee pot hummed. Outside, a bird chirped from a large maple tree.

It was their rule to never go to bed angry. So, she’d slept in the cold double bed while he curled up with a blanket on the tattered gray couch. Now, their daily routines found them here, together, seated at the breakfast table, each longing to speak but neither wanting to begin.

Finally, he couldn’t stand the earsplitting silence anymore. Making a show out of it, he thrust the newspaper closed and whipped it at the table. Startled, her eyes flicked up toward his and her hand jerked the mug, the tiniest bit of liquid sloshing over the edge.

“I don’t even know what to say to you right now,” he said. Pushing back his chair, he rose to his feet and walked away from the table, and the tension.

“No, please, don’t leave—” she begged, but it was too late.

He was already out the door.