He left. Fine he left. Said it was my fault. I agreed. But only to him. I can’t blame myself. There was more to it than that. So much more. But that’s the way it goes. He’s over and done with me and I sit here rotting. Waiting for the scar tissue around the hole in my mind (where all of the things I believed about him have been distorted, warped, changed and ripped out) to harden. Waiting for the scars across my torn fingerprints to close and fade into one of the many lines that say so much without speaking. He worked his way into my fingerprints. Fingerprints do change. They are lives. You can read a fortune upon them and, if you follow the curves, distinguish individual pain. Fingerprints burn and cry and bleed longer, harder than eyes ever could. I wash them daily, my scars and fingerprints. Caress them. Sometimes I see him. Just long enough that he can thrust himself back into my life. Long enough for the wound to be torn farther to add bacteria to the contaminated flesh. I sit. Mom was thrilled. “Really?! Oh, wonderful. I’ll make your favorite, okay?”“Make whatever you want,” I laughed. “I’ll still come.”She was called by the photographer and rushed over. I looked for Patrick and spotted him a good distance away, talking to Chloe.I watched them talk. Chloe wasn’t crying or saying anything cruel. Patrick was polite. I wondered what they were saying. Then I decided it wasn’t any of my business.He came back to me a little while later. “Closure,” he said. I took his hand.Chloe glanced back at me and I waved at her. She smiled and waved back before disappearing into the banquet hall.Patrick and I had decided we wouldn’t go to the actual reception. It didn’t seem fair or appropriate. It was Chloe’s day. We didn’t want her to feel sad or uncomfortable, and we didn’t want others to be focused on us.So we hailed a cab and went back to my apartment.We were both in a somber mood, lost in our own thoughts. Neither of us said much as we took off our coats and pulled some.
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