The Reluctant I "She Deserved Better"

It had been raining all day and that helped to mask the tears, not a lot, but a little at least. Her reddened eyes were a dead giveaway though. I tried to ignore those puffy swollen eyes, but it was hard when she looked so broken. There was no denying where the blamed lay either.

Angela had been the perfect girlfriend, everything a man could ever ask for. She cooked like a five star chef and she kept a home that even Martha Stewart would applaud. Mom and Dad loved her and she always put on her best face for all those dull family gatherings. Even Great Aunt Hilda loved her and she didn’t like anyone.

She was great in the sack at least three times a week. She loved to try out new and experimental things in bed. She bought a copy of the kama sutra and was open to all sorts of sex toys. She even invited her hot best friend in for a threesome. She always ready to go even after a rough day.

Though it never seemed like she had rough days. Sure, her boss was demanding and knew he could get her to fill in any shift with little to no notice. Her mother was a drama queen or bipolar (what’s the difference?) and her father had died when she was a kid. Her grandmother had cancer and most of her family had no time for each other. Her friends cared more about advancing their own careers than the fact that they stepped on her back to do so. She never showed any of it though. She never let anyone see her cry and she never complained.

She deserved better.
“What did I do?” she asked, her voice cracking and barely audible over the thud thud thud of water overflowing from the clogged storm drain. Her eye liner was smeared and the curls in her hair were steadily flattening from the rain.
There was no right answer to her question because she hadn’t done anything wrong. There was no way to tell her that she was just too perfect. She had to be too good to be true, but how do you tell someone that? How can you tell someone they’ve done everything right, made no mistakes and yet you’re still leaving them?
Before you try to answer, you can’t: not when you’re staring into her baby blue eyes that still sparkle despite being blood shot; not when she’s standing in front of you so fragile, so vulnerable, begging for anything but the news you’re delivering. There is no right answer because the whole situation is just wrong. Even if you know it has to happen this way, even if you’re regretting ever taking her had, ever kissing those trembling lips. There is no right way to break her heart.
All at once, all those terrible cliche lines come to mind. All those horrible one liners that no one really believes and yet get used far too often spring up, ready and willing to deliver the final blow. It’s going to tear her to pieces, but something has to be said. Even if it’s a meaningless lie, something has to put a stop to the pain reflecting in her eyes. Even if it just an excuse to turn around, the cliche will have to suffice.
“It’s not you. It’s me.”

Turning away, the connection of her soft blue eyes is broken. She gasps and sobs, but as the distance grows, the rain drowns out her whimpering cries, leaving nothing else but the thud thud thud of the rain hitting the pavement or perhaps it was my heart.

Word Count 612