November 4, 2001
Parting Words


The very last thing I said to David this morning was "Just go away."

He kissed me goodbye -- actually, he kissed my towel goodbye: I was just out of the shower and my wet hair was wrapped, turbanlike, in one of the good bath towels we got as a wedding present last summer -- and as he kissed me, he said "I love you." Only it wasn't our usual goodbye I love you, filled with tenderness and regret over our imminent parting ... but more like a question, a request for permission, an apology for leaving before we'd had a chance to resolve anything.

I was having none of it. I turned my head and said "Just go away."

And of course that's what he did: he just went away. He had somewhere to be and something to do and there wasn't time to say anything more. He shrugged into his jacket and picked up his guitar and opened the door -- I heard him pause in the doorway behind me, felt him looking back at me as though he were considering taking one last stab at fixing things -- but I just sat there, staring straight ahead at the blank computer monitor in front of me, resolute and wounded, refusing to look at him.

And a minute later ... he was gone. And all that lingered was the echo of the three ugliest, darkest, most hateful words I've ever said to him.

Just go away.



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