The Barista
August 15, 2015 - 229 words
"I can't leave her."
"Tom."
"I can't, I can't. It's not fair to her."
"Tom. It's not fair to you."
Tom felt another chill ripple through him as he ran his hands through his hair. Strands of gray there were appearing, years before they should have. Anxiety. It dropped anchor in his gut and held him fast. How would she take it? Yesterday she was talking wistfully of marriage. Today she had a knife at her wrists.
"Four years," Tom muttered, bloodshot eyes fixed on his coffee. The cafe was quiet, warm. He came here often when he sought solitude. The baristas always made him the best drinks, especially when Amanda was working. That was probably in his head though. He'd tried to learn her schedule without success.
"That's a long time," Beck responded.
Tom nodded slowly, his tongue idly tracing the contours of his teeth, as though seeking a reason not to continue talking.
"Would she stay here?"
Tom pressed his lips together, then said, "I don't know. Nothing's for her in this rainy fucking city." Guilt washed over him. He was ruining a life. All those easy quotes about love and pain seemed at once intolerable and wrong. He sighed. "Nothing."
"Tom you can't keep going like this. You're not happy."
Should've ended it before we moved. I hate her. "I can't do it. She would die."