eyes on Delilah. I knew then the person I was and still, I tainted her. I remember how she twirled a curl of her hair between her fingers that night years ago. I remember how she glanced at me. I remember thinking I could never give in. And yet … I did. Now all I have left are memories that never should have been.
Even as another patron takes the seat next to mine, a beer in both hands, one for him and one for the woman beside him, all I think about is her.
The scent of white wine and florals that drifted from her when we sat across from one another at a high-top table like this. The night she first kissed me will haunt me forever.
For what it did to her and the series of events that followed, I can’t bring myself to feel anything but a deluge of regret.
“There you are.” Delilah’s voice is amiable, which doesn’t fit right on her. Even the grace of a gentle smile in greeting only adds to the loneliness.
With her small hand raised, the bartender recognizes her and brings over a glass. All the while we wait in silence and I drink her in.
“How are you?” I ask the simple question and I never realized how much it means to me. To go days without knowing and suffering in each moment that I question it, it truly carries the weight of the world in three small words that are so commonly spoken without regard.
“I’m not okay,” she admits, a sadness seemingly lifting up the corners of her lips before she takes a sip of the sweet wine. Her dark red lipstick leaves an imprint on the clear glass.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, wishing I could go back and fix it all. But just like shards of a broken mirror, it’ll never be the same again even if I could mend all the pieces and make it seemingly whole once more.
She only shakes her head slightly and then her amber eyes meet mine. “How are you?”
“I’ve been better,” I answer although I hold so much back. How is it that even after all of this, I still can’t give her the honesty that begs to be spoken?
“I’m sorry,” she whispers and retreats to her wine, admitting, “I wish I knew how to make it better, but I don’t.”
“You’re with him?” I have to ask. I have to know for sure. Seeing him in bed with her … I can’t wrap my mind around it. How I could love someone so deeply, yet hold back because someone else needs her love more. It’s as if I’m wrapped in barbed wire and I don’t know how it happened or how to escape, but either way, I simply stay as still as I can so the razors don’t cut any deeper.
“I was,” she answers and both of us watch her thin fingers glide down the stem of the glass. “I was with him yesterday,” she tells me.
“You love him?”
With her hair pulled away from her face, styled in a high bun and her sheer black blouse hanging delicately off her shoulders, she can’t hide her expression. It’s one that clearly displays sorrow. Not for herself; the melancholy is saved for me.
“I do,” she answers simply and then takes in an uneasy breath, pushing her half glass of wine away from her. “I didn’t mean for any of this—”
“I know,” I say, cutting her off and turning my body to face the bar so I can stare straight ahead at the worn wooden dartboard once again. “I didn’t mean for it to happen either.”
Even as I feel her slipping away, I haven’t a clue what to say to her. Everything that comes to mind would only make things worse, it would only tangle the wire that much tighter around my throat. I have to say something, though.
“You know, even if I’m not with you, even if you never kiss me again, I’ll still love you.” The feeling of loss coats my confession. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Funny.” She manages a sad smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I was about to say the same to you, but it sounded too much like goodbye.”
“I never did like goodbyes,” I comment if for no other reason than to end it, but she doesn’t let it go.
“You’ll let me go? You’ll be all right if I’m with him? You won’t hate me?”