As she twisted her hair, he looked at her and thought she didn’t look as pretty as she used to.
“Well?” She asked, finally looking up.
“I don’t know,” he answered, playing with something under his shoe. “It’s not easy to explain. I just, you just…It’s better if I go.”
“Says who, you? I guess you are the master of the hit and run.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Something inside him turned.
“Just that you know how to leave. And leave a mess.” The comparison was apt, she thought.
She was right. She was able to see the pattern. See the skid marks. The road ahead, and the one behind.
“I can’t be who you want me to be. I thought we, um, I, could do it. But it’s not in me Deb. I am not good for you.”
“No, you are damn well not.” Twisting her hair again.
“Do you want the key back?”
“I have a key to your apartment. Do you want it back?” She stared at him as he said this, leaving him wondering if he had misspoke.
“Of all the meaningless shit you could say to me right now, that about tops the list. The least of everything I gave to you was my key.”
“I’m sorry.” Digging his hands in his pockets. Finding the key. Placing it on the table. Turning to leave. “I have always been a bad bet.”
He left. She curled up next to the window and watched him drive away, her fist tight against her mouth. Inside her chest, without her direct knowledge, almost imperceptibly, something happened in a tiny part of her heart. It closed.