Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Three words. That’s all. It wouldn’t take long to say them.
The thing of it was, once he said them, he couldn’t take them back. And uttering them was a game-changer.
He had to mean it; it was pointless otherwise. He didn’t have a problem lying under most circumstances. But this was different. Once those three words hung in the air, he couldn’t pull them back, stuff them in his mouth and swallow. They would be out there, for everyone to see.
It was a verbal contract, binding as though a thirty-page agreement were executed, with article eight, paragraph six, sub-paragraph three setting out the consequences of retracting said statement.
She stood before him, waiting, eyes filled with love and hope.
“I can’t,” he said.
He knew one day he’d regret it, because—and he could admit this now—he didn’t. He couldn’t.
He heard her weeping as he closed the door, leaving without saying the three words she so desperately needed to hear.
“I forgive you.”