Regina De Villasante ‘25
She turned over in bed and looked at the face of the man fast asleep to her right. Soft beams of light danced across his shoulder, painting his dark curls golden. He was snoring right in her ear, but she did not mind. She checked the clock on the bedside table: 9:00 a.m. They had to meet their guests for breakfast soon. She slowly moved the man’s arm from around her waist and slipped out of bed, making sure to tiptoe over to the bathroom so she wouldn’t wake him. She looked into the mirror and was met with a face that did not reflect the five hours of sleep she had gotten. She ran a hand through her dirty blonde hair, still half curled from the night before. The rings on her finger caught the light, shining little glimmering stars on the wall. She turned her hand and admired the delicate gold bands, one carrying a small round diamond, a smile creeping across her face. She danced across the cold tile floor of the bathroom remembering the lights, the flowers, the music, the dark blue suit, and her gorgeous white dress. It felt like a fever dream, but the proof was right there on her hand.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice tinged with laughter, snapping her out of the memories as he leaned against the doorframe.
“Dancing,” she said with a grin. He swept her up in his arms and spun her around the same way he had the night before during their first dance.
“I think we did more than enough of that last night!” he said draping his arms around her shoulders, a band glinting on his left ring finger. Her eyes met his in the mirror.
“Well, now we get to do it forever!”
She turned over in bed, looking at the back of the man fast asleep to her right. Gray beams of light crept in through the cracks in the window shades, giving the room the eerie feel of a foggy morning. The man’s snores sounded like a chainsaw disturbing the peace of another Sunday. She reached out her arm trying to find her phone on her bedside table. She turned it over, the light hurting her eyes. It was 6:00 a.m. She had to leave soon if she wanted to catch her flight.
She slipped out of bed, making sure to tiptoe over to the bathroom so she would not wake him. She flicked the light switch, looking at herself in the mirror. Her face was ghostly in the glare of the white light, dark circles contrasting against her pale skin. She tied back her dark hair streaked with blonde that should have been retouched a long time ago. She turned on the tap, running her hands under the cold water and reaching up to run water across her face. The rings on her finger caught the cold light of the bathroom. She turned her hand and looked at the gold bands—one carrying a small round diamond—tears filling her eyes. She turned off the tap.
She tiptoed back across the room watching the man’s chest rise and fall as she walked over to the closet in the far corner. She slowly pulled the door open, trying to minimize the squeaking. She had been asking him to fix the door for months. She moved the long white dress aside, revealing the suitcase and backpack tucked behind it. She dragged the bags out from behind her wedding gown. It was out of style anyway, she told herself. Only one thing left to do.
She pulled the letter she had written from the front pocket of the backpack. She placed the letter on the dresser and took a deep breath. She reached for her left hand, pulling the rings off her finger. After wearing them for 10 years, they felt stuck. She yanked at them a little harder and one went flying clattering onto the floor.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rough. She stopped in her tracks, her back turned to him. He rubbed his eyes, taking in the backpack over her shoulder and the suitcase at her side. “What is this?” she heard as the covers moved, as he got out of bed and bent to pick the ring off the floor. Her phone lit up with a notification. Her Uber was there.
“I have to go.”
“Where are you going? How long will you be gone? And why did you take off your ring?” She could hear the confusion and pain in his voice and couldn’t bear to look in his eyes. His hand landed on her shoulder, turning her around. Her eyes traced up his chest to his short, cropped curls, finally landing on a pair of tired hazel eyes.
“I have to go,” she said again, grabbing her suitcase. She stood there for a minute, taking him in. What was one more, after five million, two hundred and fifty-six thousand?
“Will you be back?”
No.