It's one of those late nights in the kitchen—the kind where truth slips out between sips of brown liquor, good cheese, and broken pieces of dark chocolate that melt slowly on the tongue, making for bittersweet confessions. It's the kind of night when vulnerability creeps past our usual guards, carried on the backs of half-finished sentences and averted glances.
This woman, whom I'd just met, is telling me about her marriage. Twenty-three years. Two solid careers. Three kids — all grown. Empty nest. Great house. It's the kind of relationship others point to and say, "They made it." But the way she's twisting her wedding band, around and around like she's trying to decode a message hidden in the metal, tells me that's not how she feels.
"I have never wondered if he'd leave me," she said, staring at her bejeweled left finger. "But I've always wondered when he'd explode."
Then she offered a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes before excusing herself. The chocolate shavings on her abandoned plate left dark smudges like tiny punctuation marks ending the sentence she hadn't finished.
xo,
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