The words / Monty Hoosegow

He turned his head and looked at the wall. It was the only place it made sense to look. Her words had made their way across the table and were now his to do with what he pleased. He kept them at a safe distance for the time being, choosing to focus on the wall rather than ponder or understand them.

She'd arranged the words in a different, kinder manner than she intended. Such words tend to do that on their own as they are spoken. Any thought of restating them in a more direct fashion was dismissed, however, when he looked away. That gesture left little doubt that any sort of rephrasing was necessary, yet from where she was sitting the words seemed to still hang there, unclaimed, somewhere between her mouth and his ears.

He continued his stare at a blank spot on the wall. He considered shifting his gaze to the bookshelf, or to a picture, but he feared the slightest change of focus might be interpreted as a sign of acceptance. Instead he took those words and batted them around for a bit, to and fro, in a futile act of postponement. And as they danced about he came to appreciate them. For as much as the words now belonged to him, he was at their mercy. They had staked their claim in that room and no amount wall staring could convince them to have never been uttered.

She spoke one more word, his name, which led him to finally meet her eyes. He then opened his mouth and reluctantly delivered his own words, the first of thousands they'd needlessly exchange the rest of the evening that would sprinkle over the undisputed fact they both knew neither could change, that it was over.