The time he had finished an outdoor lunch and was polishing it off with a cigarette. In my innocence and eagerness in a series of first dates, I had risen from my seat and asked if he was ready. In an instant he stamped out the cigarette, shoved the chair aside, and looking straight ahead, lips set, began walking. I remember pleading, "I'm so sorry. I didn't think you'd mind walking and smoking ... Why aren’t you talking to me? What did I do?"The answer was simple. My standing up had indicated an end to that moment, and it was he who would dictate when ends would come. After punishing me for several minutes with agonizing silence, he forgave me and explained he had been enjoying the moment and wanted to sit and relax while smoking. I had ruined it for him. That part rings clear, as they it had been last summer, not thirteen summers before. His tantrum, his smoldering silence, his infuriation were the result of my inconsideration. If only I were a marionette, he would not be forced to stamp out my hope.Somehow, I had moved past the blame, not believing it, or feeling it, and went on to allow many more accusations to come my way.
What do You think about The Space Between Promises?
