"I don't know what you want me to say or do."
"I don't want you to say anything. And, you've done enough already." She places the magazine she is holding on the end table before getting up from the couch. "I'm going to bed."
Like her movements, her words are slow and tired as if delivering them is taking all of the energy she has.
"I'll be there in a minute."
"No," she thinks to say more but there is nothing more that needs to be said.
"No?"
"No." Her voice is soft, almost a whisper but it carries a finality that he understands.
She walks into the bedroom, closes the door and rests her head against the door frame. The wood feels cool against her forehead. She lingers a moment longer.
The warm summer night is still and silent. Curtains hang in open windows without moving. She winces at the gunshot sound of the door lock being depressed.
She hears him, indecisive, on the other side. "Jen?"
There is nothing left inside of her. All of her tears have been cried.
"Jen, please, talk to me."
She has no breath to speak. And what would she say, anyway? That she forgives him? That she believes him?
No, she can do neither. She has done both in the past. He is not going to change.
In the morning she will pack her things. And she will go. Just go.
The emptiness out there can be no worse than the emptiness in here. In her.
His voice, only inches away on the other side of the door, "Jen, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
In the darkness, nothing moves.
But "sorry" doesn't work. Why?
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