Maybe Things Will Be Different

Maybe things will be different this time. She has stood in this room countless times, and though it has been months since she has last been here, nothing has changed. The room is still a chaotic mess, but continues to smell of clean laundry. As always the television is turned on simply for the sake of being on, with the computer humming in the background.

No, nothing has changed in this room, not even the man standing in the doorway. He still looks the same, wears the same clothes, has the same haircut, the same glasses. His demeanor hasn’t changed either; this is who he is, take it or leave it. Suddenly she begins to question herself. What am I doing here? Am I a fool? A complete and utter moron? But maybe things will be different this time. Maybe it won’t turn out like every time before. Maybe he’s changed. But he hasn’t changed, and yet she has come back here. Here, to this bedroom, a place she too often longs for, a place she too often longs to forget.

The familiar click of the door locking brings her out of her attempts at rationalization. As he moves toward her, she closes her eyes, hoping after this time things will be different, but she’s too smart to actually believe that. He won’t change, he won’t leave her for you, he never has. So what are you doing here? Just leave, walk out before you get hurt again.

Suddenly the scent of his soap overwhelms her, clouds her judgment, as he walks up behind her. Just like a thousand times before he slips his arms around her waist, whispering in her ear, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” lightly kissing her neck. Do I say it back? Do I tell him the truth? Do I tell him how I can’t stop thinking about him? How he pops into my head at least ten times a day? Slowly she turns around to face him, “I’ve missed you too,” she settles for. At that moment, looking into his eyes, she realizes she is done for. And although she knows there is no real meaning behind any of his words, any hope of turning and walking out is squandered. Unable to look at him, she lowers her head.

He catches her chin with his thumb and index finger, raising her face until their eyes meet again. She searches for something, anything, but as always only finds lust. Why can’t he love me? Why does he come back to me, but is never willing to stay? Maybe this time things will be different. As he stares into her eyes he gently says, “God, you’re beautiful.” And this statement, this simple phrase stings, more than the fact that his missing her held no apparent meaning. He is the only man to ever say those words to her. And as she looks deep into his eyes, she sees that of all the lies, of all the half truths, and deceiving statements, this is not one of them. Am I clinging to this one statement? This one and only fact that has escaped his lips? Is that why I am still standing here, hoping for more? I should just leave…but what if things are different this time?

So she stays, hanging onto the hope for something more, for something different. Maybe this time things will be different. Maybe this time he will be different. Or maybe, just maybe, this time I will be different.