He Hoped Not
Why is it always her, he thought, not for the first time, not for the thousandth time?
He was over her, that he knew. He’d reached the happy state where he wondered what he’d ever seen in her and was grateful, although curious, at how little he’d felt when his suspicions concerning her, well, he couldn’t call it fidelity (but something related to that concept) had proven unfortunately accurate. Shock had perhaps cushioned any emotions: no trace of anger or sorrow. No despair, not even any regrets. Especially no surprise. Shock really doesn’t get enough credit.
It had already been years (OK, barely, but still, a decent interval) and yet, to his surprise and morbid curiosity, her face was still the first to appear in his mind’s eyes whenever he speculated on his past or his future. No feelings really, just her face, and then a bit of conjecture, a bit of wishing her ill and then feeling guilty, and then, on with life. But why was she still so omnipresent?
Could anyone be so stupid as to accept any kind of a meaningful relationship with someone who’d so artfully once played him?
He hoped not.
© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2015; all rights reserved