Seven Years and a Sunflower

Reuben was a man of principles.

He liked plans. He liked order. He liked everything to follow the proper sequence.

He was never late for a date. If we said seven o'clock and he arrived at one minute past, he apologized.

Every anniversary, he worked late, because the project deadline couldn't be moved.

The hospital where I worked was close to him. I asked if he could drop me off on his way.

He said he didn't want to take the detour.

So I caught the subway and switched to a bus every day, until my heels blistered, scabbed, and blistered again.

Then one day the rain came down hard, and I stood soaked through under the bus shelter.

Reuben's car drove past and sprayed water all over me.

Bonnie was in the passenger seat.

That was how I learned that every day he drove halfway across the city to take her to work and home again.

He was always like that.

Bonnie was the one exception in all his principles.

"Reuben…"

Bonnie's voice carried over.

He glanced back toward the office, and his tone went hurried.

"I have to get to it. We'll talk at home if there's something."

I looked at him, and for the first time I saw how ridiculous I'd been.

Forget it.

"Come home early tonight. There's something I need to talk to you about."

I turned and walked away.

Reuben froze, took two instinctive steps after me, then turned back at the sound of Bonnie calling his name.

Downstairs, I dropped the coffee into the trash.

Coffee I was allergic to, a man past his expiration date. I didn't want either of them anymore.

I walked all day with nowhere to go.

By the time I got home, it was dark.

I'd just stepped out of my shoes when a pair of hands gently caught me from behind and guided me to the couch.

Reuben knelt in front of me and bent his head over my ankle.

"Why are you bleeding?"

I followed his gaze and only then saw the raw patch on my heel, the faint stain of blood seeping through my sock.

He dug the little first-aid kit out from under the coffee table and started dabbing at it with an iodine swab.

"Does it hurt?"

He blew on it softly, every motion careful.

Something in my chest went soft for a moment.

I nodded and looked down, meaning to say something.

My eyes landed on my ankle.

On the bandage was a little deer.

The same little deer shape as the latte art on the coffee that morning.

My fingers curled in.

The warmth that had just started to rise felt like someone had poured a glass of ice water over it.

"Reuben, let's get a divorce."

The hand holding the tweezers went still.

"Over the Iceland trip?"

He frowned, his tone disbelieving, as if the idea were absurd.

I met his eyes and nodded.

"Yes."

He raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, like his patience had run out.

"Marie, something this small, how long are you going to keep making a scene over it?"

Small. My things were always small.

Only Bonnie's things were ever big.

Reuben took a deep breath, set the tweezers back on the coffee table, stood up, and stepped back.

"Marie, you're not stable right now. I'm not going to argue with you."

His voice was pressed flat and even, the way you'd soothe a child throwing a tantrum.

"This divorce thing, I'll pretend I didn't hear it. Don't bring it up again."

Then he turned for the entryway and bent to change his shoes.

"I'll stay somewhere else tonight. We'll talk when you've calmed down."

The door slammed shut.

The apartment went terrifyingly quiet.

I slumped there in the dark, and the familiar suffocation rushed over me.

It wasn't the first time.

Reuben and I had fought over Bonnie more times than I could count.

Every time ended the same way.

He slammed the door and left me alone in the empty apartment.

No clearing it up, no explanation, no talking. Just gone, like he'd vanished off the face of the earth.