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CEDARVILLE
REVIEW
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able. Now it is painful and pathetic.
“I don’t want you anymore.” The words sounded harsher as I mentally push replay. I mute the furi-
ous questions. I skip over my wounded ego. I can fix this. Yeah, I can fix this. I just need to find the
loop whole, the plot twist, the solution. I look up to Alayna for visual aid.
She’s picked up her pace. She walks about a foot in front of me on the sidewalk path. I stare at the
back of her head, champagne pouring out in shiny soft locks. Her pale skin, softer and fuller from
carrying two children, is dotted with goose bumps. Is it colder? I’m sweating. With each step,
Alayna’s retro black skirt swishes in beat with the nervously shifting blossoms. She turns to look at
me. It wakes me from a hypnotic daze.
Her freckles crowd, her blue eyes shove, and her eyebrows cross their arms. This is not the look I
get when I’ve forgotten to text when I’m coming home. It’s not the look I get when I don’t compli-
ment her new dress. It’s not the look I get when I go off on the interesting details of the making of
Casablanca. Those looks I can fix with a kiss on the neck, an “I’m sorry,” or a dip into a slow dance.
No, I’ve never seen this face directed at me before. This face barges in when the family room
suddenly doesn’t “look right” and a garage sale is held in our front yard a couple hours later. This
face smirks as Alayna hangs up on her boss and declares, “I’m quitting publishing to focus more
on my painting!” This face comes when Alayna wants to leave city life to move back to easy-going
Huntington Beach.
“Dad, can I run to the tree?”
I look away from my wife and see Michelle point to a tree fifteen feet away. Her face is decorated
with her mother’s determination. I want to vomit. The words have morphed again: “I don’t love
you anymore.”
“Yeah, don’t go any further and come right back.” The answer leaves my mouth. I realize I’m the