To Explain Yourself | Sarah Anderson “Guess I should let people's narrow idea of ‘me’ make all my decisions.” She paid dearly for her cleverness, enduring a silence cut by a scoff- no doubt with that flat, snide smile that slapped the eyes with nonchalance- she could feel it between the bulk of the receiver and the sound of his breath. It had been weeks, now, of the silence since she’d let him down. She saw no way back but concession, no light at the opposing end of the tunnel. But through the hazy yellow in the street-facing window, she could see the two of them a lifetime ago in the hushed brightness of a crescent moon. He’d held her in stiffly flexed arms and breathed her in; she rested an ear against a steady pulse. He’d asked that she be gentle with herself. She’d agreed in stillness- eyes closed to all else, unwilling, still, to face an alternative. He’d been crazy, he claimed, in some past life, about chardonnay, until the time came for a change of pace in the emptying of bottles. Then came the age of bourbon and with it laughter or tears, in accordance with the dose. She knew they’d manage to conquer it- to conquer all- and swore her allegiance to him in a fit of frustrated defiance against all those self-righteous know-it-alls who’d tried to “protect” her. She stuttered, scrambled- to make herself worthy, to live up to him, to explain away failure and feel. Only recently had the absolutes started to crumble. They’d failed to weather the sunsets on Liberty and Thursday nights closing Del’s. Somewhere in it, some voice she’d come to love had told her, “You don’t have to explain yourself.” She’d met its eyes without a word; they’d understood a way wide and unparalleled. They’d come and gone in one warm front, but at the thought of their words she felt her strength in the silence held against her, breathing steady, deep, and slow. One last time, one explanation short, she hung up.
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