Wine

I stared at the text on my phone from James, sipping wine straight from the bottle.

“We need to talk,” I repeated the words under my breath, “I’m tired of talking, James Wood,” I took another large swig from the bottle, sitting it harshly on the counter.

The thing I’ve learned about James is he loves to talk when it’s trying to convince me to stay in our loveless marriage, but the second I start asking the hard questions; he shuts down. He doesn’t want to talk anymore. He wants to make demands, and old Rosa would have fallen at his feet at the opportunity to show him that I was all in.

“Years,” I spoke through gritted teeth to an empty, “Three years I spent falling at your feet. And for what?” I raised my voice at the ceiling.

I paced the living room of my condo gripping the wine by the neck of the bottle. I’d switched from my scrubs to fluffy pajama pants and a tank top, which had quickly become my essential nighttime routine now that I wasn’t living with James.

For three year