Why Did She Demand More?

She didn’t use awful words. She used kinder, much softer language. Safer, more civil words. Standards. Direction. Momentum.

Nina said she needed someone who was going somewhere.

I wasn’t headed there.

I thought two years together meant something. I believed shared beds, shared meals, shared love added up to value. I felt they accumulated interest. I was wrong. Love depreciates when it isn’t attached to an upgraded pathway.

My car was reliable but old. My job was stable, but not ascendant. I was educated, but not management material—no visible ladder, no executive shine, no promise of promotion. I was safe. I was thoughtful. But I was insufficient.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t cry. She said she didn’t want to wake up at forty and realise she’d settled for someone like me. She said I wasn’t an evil man, just that I was going nowhere.

I could feel the words pressing against her ribs while she spoke. The future, tapping its watch, eager to reset.

When she left, I didn’t follow her. Men like me never chase; we catalogue. We file things away. We re-examine them years later under better light.

It’s been twenty-one years.

I wonder what she sees when she thinks of me now. Was I a provisional draft? A first apartment? A boy before men? I wonder if she tells her story with a smile—about the almost-someone she outgrew. I wonder if she cries for losing me.

I’m going to see her soon. I heard she’s alone.

I drive a better car now. I wear up-to-date clothes. My life looks awesome from the outside. If she opened the door, she might think I’ve finally arrived.

That’s the question, isn’t it?

Will I sweep her off her feet, prove her wrong, and offer her the upgrade she always wanted?

Or am I returning an insult, like a debt that’s accrued interest?

She’ll find out soon enough.

Good investments take time.

-Mitchell