His glasses hung from his right hand as he sat in the chair, folders, books, papers and his bible opened across his lap, untouched mug full of coffee on the table under the lamp to his left. His eyes were closed, his mouth was closed, his hair was in his eyes, bits of it curling up over his ears, and his feet were bare. His jeans were threadbare, blue button-down shirt worn thin. His work clothes. The reverend-uniform. Typical for him midweek. The wind blew against the storm windows. We put them up last weekend because it's Thanksgiving and we didn't want to have to do it in amongst cooking turkey and entertaining all the boys, even Ben who got left out of invitations but unbeknownst to me would be invited for dinner two days later and told to smarten up and help with me and help he did.
I take the glasses out of his hand gently and put them on the table beside his coffee. Then I take the cup and as I turn to go he says my name.
Bridget.
He knew then and there he was leaving. I wonder if he knew he'd never come back? I wonder if he left and then realized it was a mistake and then somehow knew he couldn't come back, or wonder if I would take him back if he did. He knew when he opened his eyes and looked around for his glasses and then for me that he was going to leave and I didn't know until he left. I couldn't stop him. I couldn't be better or more or perfect or somehow less me.
I couldn't stop him.
I wasn't good enough. He didn't want me the way I was. The way I am.
