Unforgivingly Cruel

Her hair flowed like a swirling river from the crown of her head and onto the pillow and on her side of the bed. A moment before, while sleeping on the hard unforgiving floor, her body folded elegantly into itself; curved like dunes on the top, straight, hugging an invisible straight line at the bottom. Her face was flushed red in all the cute places from all the drinks she had earlier that evening. I remember staring at her, incredulously. I should be mad at you, right now, is what I thought back then. The next day she woke up, oblivious of the hurtful things she said to me the day earlier. Or maybe she was ashamed of herself and feigned ignorance. I decided to do the same. Six years or so later, when she left, I finally understood that that night, those cruel words, was how she must have felt about herself. When I close my eyes at night, that hair sometimes still flows like a swirling river, into my heart. And what I wouldn’t give to hear her whisper those same words into my ears, hard and unforgivingly cruel as they may have been.