He closed the door. His entire body seemed to deflate as he leaned his back against it and the latch clicked. A flip of the switch over his left shoulder turned off the porch light. A car motor started and quickly faded in the distance. 'Thank God that's over. I couldn't go through that again.' Neither person had been happy for quite some time so when conversation turned into pleading into begging to try again he was caught off guard.
"When you love somebody, you can't just say it's over. Not like that. Not like that!"
"We don't get along anymore. We make each other miserable. You told me that. We've grown apart. I'm sorry, but we can't go on like this."
"You're right. We can't go on like this. We can go on by making it better."
"We can't get better. Don't you see that?"
"I will wait for you to change your mind. I will wait another lifetime if I have to. I will be with you somehow. That's how it is when you love somebody."
"It's late. You should go."
This is how the scene played out. He knew in his heart ending their relationship was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. Still, it felt mean. He pulled himself away from the door, heading for the bedroom. The phone rang.
He wasn't going to answer. He knew it would be him. He was drained and had nothing new to say. The answering machine picked up. "This is the highway patrol. There's been an accident."
He snatched up the receiver. "Hello. Accident?"
"We found your name and phone number in the wallet of the victim. I'm sorry to tell you your friend didn't make it. Do you know if he had relatives? How can we reach them?"
"No. I was all the family he had. Sorry. I'm not -"
"Of course. I'll call you tomorrow. Good night."
He set the receiver back in its cradle and staggered to the bedroom. He turned on the light. One wall was dripping in blood. It read: I'm still here.
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