Jim sat at the kitchen table, turning his coffee mug around and around. The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual. Outside, rain tapped softly against the window. He looked up when he heard the front door open.
“You’re home early,” he said.
Sarah shrugged off her wet coat and hung it by the door.
“They let us go,” she replied.
She walked over to the sink and filled a glass with water. She didn’t meet his eyes.
“Why’d they do that?” Jim asked.
“Budget cuts,” she said, taking a sip. “They said it wasn’t personal.”
Jim nodded slowly.
“I’m sorry.”
She turned to face him.
“Are you?”
He blinked.
“What do you mean?”
She set the glass down.
“I don’t know, Jim. Maybe it’s a good thing.”
“How could losing your job be a good thing?”
She sighed and sat across from him. “Maybe now we can finally talk.”
He felt a knot in his stomach.
“About what?”
“About us,” she said. “About where this is going.”
He glanced away. The rain pounding heavier.
“I thought things were okay.”
“That’s just it,” she replied. “They’re not. We haven’t been okay for a while.”
He picked up his mug, realized it was empty, and set it back down.
“I don’t know what to say.”
She reached across the table and touched his hand.
“Maybe we don’t have to say anything right now. Maybe we just need to be honest.”
He looked at her hand on his. It carried the strangeness of a borrowed hand, foreign and unsettling, as if it belonged to someone I’d never met.
“Honest about what?”
“About how we feel,” she said. “About what we want.”
He pulled his hand back and stood up.
“I need some air.”
She watched him walk to the door.
“It’s raining,” she said.
“I know.”
He grabbed his jacket and stepped outside.
The cold rain hit his face as he stood on the porch. He could hear the distant sound of a train horn. He thought about the day they moved into this house, how hopeful they had been.
Now it felt like a lifetime ago.
The door opened behind him. Sarah stepped out, wrapping her arms around herself. “Jim,” she said softly.
He didn’t turn around. “What do you want me to say?” She took a step closer.
“I want you to tell me how you feel.”
He closed his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
She was silent for a moment.
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
He turned to face her.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to try,” she said. “I want us to try.”
He looked into her eyes, searching for something.
“Maybe ‘trying’ is the problem.”
She shook her head.
“We’ve been drifting. We’re like strangers under the same roof.”
He felt the weight of her words.
“I guess I didn’t see it.”
“Will you come back inside?” she asked.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
They went back into the house. The warmth enveloped them as they closed the door. He hung his wet jacket and followed her into the living room. She sat on the couch, and he sat beside her.
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the rain ease up.
“Do you remember when we first met?” she asked.
He smiled faintly.
“At the coffee shop.”
“You spilled your drink,” she said.
“And you laughed,” he replied.
She smiled.
“I thought you were cute.” He looked at her.
“I miss that.”
“Me too,” she said softly.
He reached for her hand. This time, it felt familiar.
“Maybe we can find it again.”
She squeezed his hand gently.
“I’d like that.”
The clock in the hallway chimed. They sat together, the room filled with the quiet sound of the rain subsiding.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll start tomorrow.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
They stayed there, hands clasped, as the last drops of rain tapped against the window.
Jeffery Allen Tobin is a political scientist and researcher based in South Florida. He has been writing for more than 30 years. His latest poetry collection Scars & Fresh Paint was published in 2024 with Kelsay Books, and his poetry, prose, and essays have been featured in many journals, magazines, and websites.
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