We are dancing and I am crying.
Thereâ€™s a scene that plays repeatedly inside my head. Itâ€™s one of a handful of evening we shared while he knew our fate and I still didnâ€™t.
I am sitting on the couch doing a crossword. He is up and about the apartment doing something with his new electronics. They have slowly replaced me. One by one, they have slowly replaced us: the flat screen, the surround sound, the DVR, the wireless, the ipod speakers, the MacBook. We each do our own thing; we are independent. I am finally assimilated with this isolated routine. So much so that I have myself convinced we are almost happy.
Music comes out of the ipod speakers. I donâ€™t even look up until I feel him standing over me. His arm is outstretched and reaching for my hand with the words â€œWant to dance?â€ This moment is so surprising, itâ€™s uncomfortable.
We are dancing.
â€œI just downloaded this CD,â€ he informs me. I notice the song for the first time. Itâ€™s _You Were Always on My Mind_. Two phrases keep repeating, sticking out: maybe I didnâ€™t and I should have.
We are dancing and I am crying. Because I feel like I should be, and yet in spite of the fact that I am not. This is romance, this is love. And yet itâ€™s not, and I know it.
This scene--our dancing, my tears--would look like a love scene to an observer, someone who perhaps stopped to gaze at us through the open window. I myself nearly believed it was. I now know this scene that is always there repeating, is not a love scene, but an apology. Itâ€™s a silent apology for what he was about to do. An apology for what he had already done.