(no subject)
[note: this was written for my own entertainment and posted here only for archiving purposes. it was left screened while the official mbh jose was active to avoid confusion or misunderstanding, and unscreened only after the official mbh jose vacated the journal.]
She looks tired and small in the dark; a pale, fragile woman in a silk slip who once used to dance with me at my father's parties, who could draw my attention with a musical laugh or the faint quirk of her soft mouth. All her softness is worn down now, and I know that I more than anyone helped clip the jagged edges, whittled her away and ground her down until she is thin and shadowy, a nagging dreamlike thought in the back of my mind that I can close the door on when it is convenient for me to do so.
"You said you would be home by dinnertime."
As you can imagine, it is often convenient.
"I got caught up," I evade, leaning slowly against the doorjamb, letting it take my weight and provide the balance; no reason to advertise how drunk I am. "I was going to call, but by the time I got a moment away it was late, and I didn't want to wake you."
"You said," she repeats, tipping her head back so the light draws shadows around her eyes, "that you would be home early, to spend time with her. You said that tonight, and last night, and the night be--"
"I know what I said. Okay? I said I was sorry, what do you want?"
She's smaller, frailer, but her eyes are colder these days; harder with every passing year. "No," she says softly, "you did not." I frown, not understanding, and she continues steadily, "You did not say you were sorry. You never do."
"I'm--"
"Don't, Jose." She smiles a little, but it isn't pleasant; it's icy and sad and mean, and I marvel that my little Stephanie can make such a look. "Don't say it, because you do not mean it, and you only ever say what you mean. That is all I can depend on you for. You were never sorry for the others you loved, or made love to, and you are not sorry now."
I close my eyes against that look, so much hurt and fury; I lick my teeth and taste alcohol and sweat, the dull undercurrent of blood. "I would like to be sorry," I tell her. I feel as if this is a conversation I have had before, but I can't place it in time and space.
"I believe you," she says. "That does not help me very much."
We study each other quietly. She is still a beautiful woman. She doesn't laugh much anymore, but her mouth is still soft and full, her eyes magnetic, her smile inviting. She is the same woman I fell enchanted with all those years ago, and she is the mother of my child. But she isn't what I want or need anymore.
"It's late," she says, before I make an awkward attempt at begging for her forgiveness. "You should go to bed. You'll see her in the morning, a little." She stands from the table and moves to switch off the light.
"Steph--" I begin as we pass each other, but she cuts me off with a shake of her head.
"I know, Jose," she says. "Me too." She smiles; no anger this time, too heavy an emotion to carry too far. There is only tenderness and regret there. "Sweet dreams."