Driveway. Sarah sits in her car, the engine off, her eyes fixed on a spot of chipped paint on the old garage door in front of her. She had turned the key in the ignition a few moments back, but her hand still rests there, grasping the ridged and familiar piece of metal as her mind travels, miles away.
Inside, she could just make out the outline of Sam tucked back behind the curtain as she pulled up. Thinking himself invisible, he stares out at her, watching, wondering how this will all play out, wishing it didn’t have to.
With a sudden jerk of her head and a sigh so deep it seems all of the oxygen inside the car has moved to her lungs, she refocuses. She removes the key from the slot, still keeping it in her now white-knuckled grip. A long exhale. Before she can change her mind, she heads toward the house.
She twists the handle to the front door, jiggling it just a little to make it open, just as she’s always had to do. Sam has rearranged himself in the armchair, a magazine spread on his knees, trying his best to look casual. In the dim light of dusk coming through the window Sarah can just barely make out the wrinkle of worry across his forehead.
“You’re home late,” he remarks, his eyes still fixed to the same line of his magazine.
“Had a lot to do today.” She trains her eyes on the lawn out front, unkempt and speckled with brown after an unseasonably dry summer.
An unidentifiable rage begins to build in Sam’s chest, but he refuses to yield to it.
Controlling his voice, he adds, “And yesterday.” The amount of spite that still manages its way out surprises even him, and he regrets his tone.
“Yeah. Well.” Her eyes lower as she gathers herself, searching for words that could possibly make this easier. He shifts a shaking hand to turn the page, the crinkle reverberating off the walls and in her head, and she wonders if she should reconsider. But then she thinks of all she’s given up, thinks of her daughter’s beautiful wedding and the failed counseling sessions and suddenly gains her resolve.
Quietly, as if not to scare him, she reaches into her bag, and lays a packet of papers on the coffee table face down. She slides it in front of him. Slowly straightening, her eyes filling but her mouth set, she makes out barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.” Then she turns to go, leaving a worn silver key on the table as she leaves.
Driveway. She can hear him calling to her to wait as she sped off, but she does not stop.
Inside, Sam sits back down. He flips the paper over. Though there are many words, he can read only one: Divorce.