Here’s a what’s in my draft, I think this might be the third one I’ve posted on this page, I’m not sure. Anyway, this one is titled “The AfterMatt” which is a 13 part poetry/story series that I’ve actually completed. I don’t know, for some reason I’m actually quite proud of this one.
So here you go, you’re reading “The AfterMatt”
He doesn’t need to say anything.
I can tell.
He tries to hide it, maybe he thinks I don’t notice. I watch him as he moves things around. he starts by rearranging the magazines on the table before deciding he does not want them on the table and puts them on the floor.
I brace myself.
He fluffs the pillows and folds the blanket lying carelessly on the floor.
I feel like I am being marched to the guillotine, I try to pull a brave face. I grin at him and blow him a kiss. I am a martyr not a criminal.
He grins back and it’s almost real, but it lasts too long.
In psychology there is this term called affective forecasting, the process by which people predict their emotional reactions to future events.
He finally sits opposite me, he does not look at me.
I am aware of our toes slightly touching.
I am aware that I am leaning towards him and he is slouched against the chair.
I am aware that the loud but small clock I got him from his birthday is not ticking.
People routinely overestimate the joys of falling in love.
I don’t know where I get the courage to speak.
“It’s not working is it”
and the pain of falling out of it.
My voice does not shake.
He looks at me, not surprised or shocked at all. He just casts me a sad smile and shakes his head.
“I’ve been preparing but dreading this day. I wrote a whole draft. Liza, I-” his voice freezes in his throat.
I get up to leave.
The walk to his door is longer than I remember it.
I feel like I am being marched to the guillotine.
I try to pull a brave face.
“I’m sorry too.”
I am a martyr not a criminal.