The Last Time

He stands there, one hand on the doorknob, his shoes in the other, like taking his shoes off will stop me noticing he's been out til 6am. He looks busted, like a teenage kid, which makes me angrier because I feel even more like his mother. We look at each other in silence. Ive been sat here so long I've had the conversation a hundred times, but now he's here, I just can't begin.
Her perfume reaches me from across the room, drifting in on the morning breeze.
I furiously do not want to cry. I want to be tough, stand up, tell him to get the f**k out, back to her, whoever she is, Sally or some s**t. Get the f**k over to Sally's, I'll send your stuff over, in a skip.
But I love him. And all that comes out is this long, juddering sigh, and my eyes fill until I can't see him any more, just a shape siilhouetted against the dawn light.
He's across the room in a stride, kneeling in front of me, trying to take my hands that are screwed up in my eye sockets. He's mumbling over and over "She's nothing, I love you, I'm so sorry, she's nothing to me" My heart sucks up his words, my hands weaken, feel the tough skin on his palms as he draws them to his lips. Under her perfume I can still smell him, fresh and warm, and I so want to forgive him again, kiss him, let him dry my tears, take him to bed. Every string of me aches to hold him.
But my bag is by the door, and here's the taxi pulling up under the pines.
He rises with me, says my name, questioning, calling, shouting as I step off the porch and into the open door of the taxi. I don't look back, my eyes too full of tears to see much anyway, as the taxi pulls away, crunching on pine needles as I leave, for the last time.