Too Late, Antonio

Laura’s POV

I gazed mutely at the flickering candle in the center of the dinner table. The flame flickered softly, standing out like the only source of warmth in the whole room.

Antonio hadn't uttered a word in almost ten minutes now. I sat opposite him in stiff silence, my hands neatly folded on my lap.

I wore that purple dress that he said he once loved. The one with the open back and little pearls along the neckline. I even curled my hair, something I hadn't done in months.

It was our anniversary. Ten years. Ten years of attempting to love a man who gazed at me as though I were a stranger. "Would you like a little more wine?" I asked, reaching for the bottle. 

He didn't answer but stared at his phone while thumbing his way slowly across the screen.

My stomach tightened. I looked down at my plate. The steak was growing cold. I had spent a lot of time marinating it.

I kept checking the recipe again and again, trying to do it perfectly. His favorite, medium rare with peppercorn sauce. Clearing my throat, I said, "I planned this because I thought maybe we could talk."

Still nothing. Just as I was about to utter another word, he stood up. I blinked a couple of times. "Antonio...?"

He adjusted his cuffs and started toward the door. "I have a meeting."

"At 9:30? At night?"

He stopped. His jaw clenched. "Yes."

"Antonio, wait!" I should have been standing by then, clutching the edge of the table. "It's our anniversary."

He turned slowly to the opposing angle. His eyes met mine, unforgiving, cold, and gray. "I didn't forget," he said flatly, "I just don't care."

I felt the air rush out of my lungs. I stepped back, as though I'd been slapped. "How can you say that?"

He sighed, walking past me. I followed him with my voice rising, "We've been married for ten years, Antonio!"

He turned sharply. "And they felt like a prison sentence."

I froze. A beat of silence. Then another. I looked at him. His collar was wrinkled.

He smelled of a heavy cologne, but not the one that he used to wear. This new one was heavier. And spicier. It clung to his skin like something foreign. I whispered, "Are you seeing someone?"

He didn't blink. "I thought you knew."

My knees started to give out, and I caught onto the wall instead. "You're not even trying to lie," I whispered.

"No," he said, turning around and walking away. "Because I owe you nothing anymore."

I stood there long after he had slammed the door behind him.

His words reverberated painfully in the silence of the night.

The rest of that night, although blown with memories, I could not sleep. I sat on the bathroom floor with my feet on the red dress, gracing my naked skin, wrinkled from the waves of tears, in silence.

The house was locked in silence, yet it was screaming inside. What was I expecting? A war? An apology? Perhaps some guilt is cropping up? 

But he gave me nothing beyond the silent inching away. As though I didn't matter. I wanted to scream, but another part of me was fatigued.

I rose slowly, walking towards the closet. My closet. His side was messier than usual; a stray tie was lying on the floor, while a shirt was thrown over a suitcase.

Wait. A suitcase? I bent down and opened it. Inside were clothes, a watch, a wallet...and a small lavender-colored scarf.

Not mine.

It smelled of perfume. Sweet. Powdery. I dropped it as if it had burned. I was backing away, my heart pounding in my chest.

He was leaving me. Not just emotionally, but physically. He had packed. He was through. I swallowed hard at the bitter feeling rising in my throat.

…

That next morning, with a cup of cold tea at the dining table, I hadn't slept an inch. There was a doorbell ringing, but I had never stirred.

Our maid, Dora, went to open the door. Then I heard softly spoken words, followed by the retreat of footsteps, then a voice, suddenly and very firmly: "Sign here, ma'am." 

In the foyer stood a man in black with the envelope. "What is this?" I asked, voice crackling with an emotion between fear and sorrow.

He said nothing, only pointed at the envelope. I took it; my trembling hands held the envelope.

I opened it slowly, fearful of what I might find inside. There lay the document, folded in half: neat and presentable-looking legal papers. "Petition for Divorce. Filed by Antonio De Luca." 

My ears went 'zing,' and my heart pounded; Dora winced and gasped, but the man was already walking away.

I couldn't move. Frozen in place, the gigantic revelation hit me. And there it was at the bottom of the paper: signed. Dated. Today. The day he had filed for divorce was our anniversary.

I laughed. That laugh was a soft, broken chuckle that spiraled into a loud, manic, bitter one. Dora tried to come nursing toward me, but I brushed her away. 

"I'm fine," I said through my tears. "It's just funny. That's all." And that was not funny. It was a declaration of war.

…

That night, I waited for him in the sitting room. My face was clean; my voice steady.

At about eight, he came in, looked smug, and said, "I see you got my gift."

"I did." I stood. "You filed for divorce. On our anniversary." 

"This whole thing is dragging, and I didn't want to waste time," he said coolly. "You can just take what's yours and go. Clara's moving in."

I looked at him. "Clara?"

He laughed. "You always were slow to catch on."

I took a step in and then, without stopping myself, my hand slammed against his cheek. That slap echoed through the room.

He didn't flinch. He smiled. "Finally," he said, "there's some fire." And I took a step back. "You think you've broken me," I whispered. "But I'm not the one who'll suffer."

"You're weak," he said.

"No," I replied, trembling but strong. "I was weak. Now, I'm free."

...

That night, I packed my things. One suitcase. I took nothing else. Not a piece of jewelry. Not an item of clothing. Not even a single wedding photo.

Just a small test strip that had changed my life. Two pink lines. I was pregnant.