Falling.

It’s Not You, It’s Me


The natural upward tilt of her mouth fell, her full lips forming a thin, tight line. Her jaw locked, and her slight blush faded from her cheeks. Her intense gray eyes held a hint of blue now, like ocean waves preparing for a storm. The endless amusement that usually filled them had been replaced by shallow moisture. She blinked trying to rid herself of the urge to cry. She couldn’t do it here. Her sculptured eyebrows furrowed. Not in this place.

The sounds of the crowded bar were only a quiet murmur now. There were no distinct sounds of laughter from the bachelorette party on the dance floor, no cheers from the men enticed in the last few moments of the Cowboys and Redskins game, and nothing at all from him. Her reactions seemed to come quicker than anything that was happening around her. Her world was in slow motion while only she remained at normal speed. Why wouldn’t anything focus? Why could she no longer feel anything?

He got up from the old wooden stool and was almost close enough to touch, but she wouldn’t dare. Not now. Not after what he did. That bastard. She had loved him. She still did. “I’m sorry,” she heard him say crisply. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.” Those were the fated words, the ones she dreaded hearing. Why now? Her long lashes closed briefly, suddenly too heavy and stinging from staring at him. When they finally lifted, all she could see through the tears was his figure moving quickly toward the door. No, not toward the door. He was walking toward her: that same slut. Of course, it was a tall blonde with big boobs, model legs, and a powdered face. He never looked back.

“Sam,” she whispered, her own voice being the only sound in her ears. She felt empty. Her gaze dropped to the dusty floor. Her mind raced with possible reasons. How could she come in second when she had been the one doing everything? She had done everything for him. Did she really deserve this? What had she done? A lone tear freed itself from between the lashes of her left eye and slid smoothly down the side of her nose and rested on the corner of her mouth. Her hand, feeling lifeless, remained at her side, uncaring of the stray tear.

“Sam,” she repeated, feeling more alone than ever. She found herself taking his untouched double shot of whiskey and downed it. Liquid fire was set to the roof of her dry mouth. It spread quickly down her throat causing her to sputter a little. She slammed the glass back on the bar as the noise and chatter flooded her ears once again.

The band was ending its song. “This goes out to everyone that’s ever received a double shot of lies and whiskey tears,” the singer announced, low into the microphone. It was as if he had overheard everything. A few strums and then the song began, slow and heartbreaking. Her eyes locked with his as he sang the first line as softly as a lullaby. “You aren’t my one and only/ those poisoned words that killed me slowly/ woke me up from my fantasy/ snapped me back to reality/ it’s not you it’s me.”

The words were a punch in her stomach. Every line sung by this gothic angel seemed to depict her very emotions, though she didn’t want to admit it. She sought to desperately hide her head in her shaking arms or behind her curtain of copper curls and seek a much needed refuge, but she knew she could not escape the sound. She wrapped her arms around herself until they tugged uncomfortably at her bare shoulders. She hoped that by this meaningless, immature gesture she would not fall apart.

It was a beautiful, dark lullaby. It lured her into a trance as she watched his hands stroke the taut strings; his eyes scanned his listeners, the adoring fans— the ones that came every Thursday night to see him, the way they use to. Sam would bring her to this very bar and listen to these unchanged lullabies, the sweet little nothings in her ear. She still couldn’t believe that this was where it ended. Girls in excessive make-up with torn and suggestive clothing ogled at the singer, displaying the crevices of desire, hoping to catch him for themselves; he crooned the things that only their hearts knew. She could feel her confidence slip. Would she become as hopeless as them?

His face was half covered by shaggy russet hair that played with his thick lashes. His deep green eyes beckoned the crowd to linger on every word, every note, and every movement. His snug gray tee shirt stretched across his chest as he leaned forward into the range of the microphone. He smiled slowly, crookedly as he ended the song. “Thanks,” he breathed. The lights spread out over the audience. Groupies covered the floor. She hadn’t realized it had gotten so crowded. Then, another song began, a little more upbeat than before. “Swing dance across the floor/I won’t love you anymore/ you think you know more than I/ such a victory to make me cry…”

It was a parade of breakup songs intended just for her. Her heart should be beating out of her chest but she couldn’t feel it. She should be breathing rapidly, but it had slowed. She unwrapped herself. She didn’t feel like she was falling apart; in fact, she didn’t feel anything at all. She wiped her fingers under her eyes, trying to scrape off any evidence of tears, but her fingers were clean. She looked up and saw the singer's intense gaze linger on her, making her drop her own. She straightened her purple lace tank top, the one she had worn for Sam, and rose to attain a better view of the stage.