I'm Not Waiting Anymore

By the time I got back from the hospital, it was after eight at night.

I was still standing in the doorway, hadn't even gotten my shoes off, when I heard Vivian laughing.

She was on the phone with Miles, having the time of her life.

"I thought that movie was hilarious too. Let's go see it in theaters again sometime. The plot was insane, especially the ending—"

Vivian glanced up and saw me in the doorway, white as a sheet. Her expression didn't change at all.

She just put a hand over the mouthpiece. "I'm in the middle of something with Miles, so I'm going to the study. I was tired today, so I didn't cook. Order yourself some takeout.

"You've got a bad stomach and your surgery's in a couple of days, right? Order from a chain. They're cleaner."

Then, without waiting for me to answer, she put the phone back to her ear.

"Oh, Miles, there's this documentary you'd love. Have you seen it? It's called—"

She turned and walked straight into the study, and shut the door behind her.

I looked at the spot where she'd disappeared, then down at the surgery paperwork crumpled in my hand.

I shook my head at myself and let out a short, humorless laugh.

I'd wanted to sit down with Vivian and do this properly — say the word "breakup" out loud, face to face. Seven years had earned at least that much.

Turns out she couldn't even spare me the time.

I'd just come out of surgery. I was weak, worn out, and not remotely hungry.

So I skipped the takeout, took a shower, and figured I'd say it once she was off the phone.

I waited a long time. Long enough to nearly finish booking the ticket out. Vivian was still in the study, tirelessly chatting away with Miles.

It reminded me of when we first started dating.

Back then we could get half a day out of a single commercial on TV.

Now I couldn't remember the last time she and I had gotten past five sentences.

It was probably last week, over the reception menu.

We'd actually talked for a while, for once — and then we'd torn into each other over a single dish. Steamed grouper.

I'd dug my heels in about cutting it.

"Vivian, I'm allergic to seafood. I physically can't eat grouper."

She'd been impatient with me.

"So don't eat it. Miles loves fish.

"Can you not be so selfish?"

That stopped me cold.

I still don't understand how cutting a dish I'd end up in the ER over, at my own reception, made me the selfish one.

Naturally, it ended badly.

The menu never got finalized.

Looking back, that was the day I should have ended it. I just couldn't make myself let go — I had to wait until today, until Vivian forgot I was having surgery at all, before I'd give it up.

At one-thirty in the morning, she finally deigned to come to bed.

I'd been slumped against the headboard, half under, and the sound of her woke me the rest of the way.

I sat up and looked at her, seriously.

"Vivian. There's something I need to tell you."