The Exit, 1

She threw her glass against the wall. It shattered. Ice cubes thudded softly on the carpet. Oh, she was angry. Angrier than I had expected her to be. Angrier than I had ever seen her.

As I registered the whiskey staining the white wall, I realized that I’d actually never seen her angry before. She was the kind of girl who would get quietly upset. She would seethe, but almost imperceptibly. I’d known her long enough to be able to tell when she was sulking or pouting, but this– this explosion– this was new.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “it’s just that this is such a great opportunity. I can’t pass this up.”

“You don’t even want me to come with you. You’re doing it. You’re doing what you’ve been trying to do for the last two years. Fucking leave me in the dust.”

“You couldn’t come with me anyway…” I trailed off, knowing it was only half-true. And that she was right. I had wanted to leave for a long time. I had tried to leave before.

“Whatever, Tida. If you wanted to, we could figure something out. But that doesn’t even sound like an option. ‘Goodbye, going to the motherland, peace out, I’ll send you a postcard.'”

“Come on, Shay. I don’t want things to be like this. I’m not leaving for a month.” I held my breath, trying to hold back the next words that came out: “Let’s just make the best of the time we have?” I said it even though I knew it was a bad idea. I said it even though I knew that this relationship had ended for me a long time ago. I said it because I couldn’t help myself from wanting to placate her somehow, as I always had.

I couldn’t seem to just do what I wanted. I always did it halfway. I always half-compromised. Which is closer to lying than compromising.