Indifference

         They were in the bathroom; silence replaced their conversation. He sat with his back against the tub, and she faced the mirror. A brush hung from her hand. She hadn’t used it yet. He watched her reflection while she avoided his needful stare. He searched for words to break the quiet, the right words. Words concealing his longing for the past, the way things were. She’d finish soon. After brushing her hair and makeup, she’d be gone, so would the chance.

          “What do you want?” he managed, keeping his tone flat. She didn’t answer at once. When she did, her answer resonated louder than a scream. She sighed, shrugged her shoulders, and began running the brush through her hair.

         He picked himself up and started for the door. “Enough said.” He slid around her, being careful not to bump into her. Outside of the room, he pushed the door to shut it. She grabbed the knob and jerked it closed. He heard metallic clinking as she worked the lock. He eyed the door while the weight of his failing relationship settled in his gut.

         She listened from inside, holding her breath. His footsteps faded and the front door opened. She let go and sobbed into a towel to mask the sound.

         On the porch he scrolled his phone, bypassing anything that reminded him of her.

         Her car door shut, and the engine spun to life. She backed past the porch where he sat, never looking over to him. She pulled onto the street and disappeared in the distance.

         He left the porch, truck keys in hand.