The Red Truck
I cringe every time I see a red truck.
He tells me. At least he has a visual, a marker. He has some indication of the man he'd never have to deal with. He would never put himself in my shoes. To be worried about every girl I pass by because she may have shared the same moments with him that I have. To worry about the girl who sits next to me on the bus, who only lives a few doors down and gets off at the same stop as me. Maybe getting off the bus isn't the only ride we've both got off on. He doesn't know what it feels like to live in the constant shadow of unknowing. It could be anybody.
But I don't argue. I don't even reply. How could I? I don't know how to reassure him. I wouldn't bother trying even if I knew the magic phrase to put his wandering mind to rest. I wouldn't give him that luxury. He doesn't deserve it. He wants to complain about the red truck that started appearing in our shared driveway. Mostly while he was at work, but never when I was. He wants to use guilt to manipulate me into feeling like I've committed some crime and now, I owe him something more valuable than my soul. He likes to forget he ended this relationship before that red truck became a problem. He only wanted to fix things when he realized it was too late. But in his eyes, I was the problem. I did this to us. Us. We only started being "us" when I stopped being his.