Crunch.

The knife is cold.

It glitters. Sparkles. The light is dazzling.

So pretty.

I touch it. Caress it. Embrace it.

“Ava. Stop.”

His voice trembles. My heart lurches.

“Please.”

A sound.

A crunch.

The knife slices through the celery on the cutting board.

His eyes are feverish. Bright. They’re green. Like the celery. They used to be my favorite color in the world.

“Ava. Stop. Look at me.”

I slice and slice and slice.

He leans on the counter. His finger taps against the marble. It is loud; the only sound in the room. Besides the crunch of the celery.

Tap.

Crunch.

Tap.

Crunch.

My heart beats within the sounds, erratic.

“How long?” My voice is tight, like the string of the bow just before the arrow is released, when the tension is at its breaking point, when eyes lock on a target, ready to release; ready to kill.

“It was a mistake.”

Tap.

Crunch.

Tap.

Crunch.

“How long?” The knuckles that clutch the knife are white.

“It was one time. A long time ago.”

“When?”

“That’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

“Okay.”

Tap.

Crunch.

Tap.

Crunch.

Heartbeat.

I finish the chopping the celery. The pieces sit there, fresh, the green stark against the white cutting board. Dew glistens on the slices.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I start on the carrots. Orange. His favorite color.

Crunch.

“When are you going to stop and talk to me?”

“I am talking to you. Now answer my question.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“You said that already.”

“Because it’s true.”

“When?”

“It’s really, really not important, Ava.”

I put the knife down. His tapping stops. I look at him. “I am leaving now,” I say quietly.

“The night of the wedding. Our wedding.”

I run to the sink. Bile rises in my throat. I heave, over and over, this morning’s breakfast now sprayed across faucet. It stops. Slowly, I take a paper towel, and wipe down the area.

He is still. He leans over the counter, hands clenched into fists.

“Are you okay?”

“Get out.”

“No.”

“I said get out!” A scream rips from my throat. I slam my fists down against the countertop, droplets of water flying from my damp hands. 

He crosses his arms. “No.”

I grab the knife.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Tap.

His fingers begin again.

“You slept with her. The night of our wedding.”

“Like I said. It was a long time ago.”

“That wasn’t the point of that sentence.”

“I was drunk.”

“Not an excuse.”

“I know that.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Because I was drunk.”

“I hate you. I hate you.”

Crunch.

Tap.

Crunch.

Tap.

Heartbeat.

“How did you figure it out?”

I snort. “Irene told me.”

“She… she did?”

“Unknowingly.”

“I… please explain.”

“We were reminiscing. You know; how best friends do. And she told me about the shoe.”

“The shoe.”

I glance up briefly. His face is pale. His hands remain fists at his sides.

“She lost a shoe. I asked what it looked like, so I could see if I’d taken it accidentally at some point. And, apparently, I did.”

“You did.”

“The shoe.”

“The shoe.”

“The shoe we found in our hotel suite.”

“Ah.”

“’Ah’ is right.”

“So…”

“I didn’t realize that you were such a good actor. An award-winning performance, that was. You two must have laughed at that.”

“We didn’t. We never talked again after that.”

Crunch.

Tap.

Crunch.

Tap.

“So.”

“So.”

“I want to fix this.”

“Then you shouldn’t have done it.”

“I know that. You don’t know how much I regret it, Ava. I have regretted it every day for the past ten years. You have to believe me.”

“I don’t.”

“Please don’t say that.”

Heartbeat.

“I’ll do whatever it takes. You need space? I’ll give you space. Couples therapy? I’m free tonight. Or tomorrow. Or any day for the rest of our lives. You need me to sit down and explain everything to you, about what I was feeling that day, about how nervous I was that I was going to mess it all up, not be good enough for you, which I know I’m not––”

“Don’t you dare.” The words are cold. Flat. I spit them out, like my breakfast in the sink. “Don’t you dare.”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Do not put this on me. You messed up.”

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I was just… I didn’t think I would be enough.”

“That was an accurate assessment.”

Crunch.

Tap.

Heartbeat.

“It was the only time, Ava. I promise.”

“Promises don’t mean much in this relationship.”

“I’m just asking you to give me a chance.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Yet. You don’t want to yet.”

“I believe that constitutes the phrase ‘putting words in my mouth.’”

“Yes. I am.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I know. None of this is fair. I know that. But I’m just asking you to listen. Because I will do whatever it takes to fix this.”

“Even if that means walking away?” The words are quiet this time. Muted.

The crunching stops.

The tapping stops.

The heartbeats stop.

I look up at him.

Anguish. Pain. His eyes fill unexpectedly, and I step away from the cutting board, just for a moment, taken aback.

“I… I can’t. I can’t walk away from this.”

“You have to,” I say softly. “You have to.”

“I can’t.”

“Please.” A note of pleading.

I didn’t think I would be the one begging.

“Please walk away.”

“No, Ava.”

The knife is warm now, in my hand. It sparkles. Glitters.

“Please.”

He stares at me. Agony.

He sighs. And with that exhale, I see all the life, all the energy, all the soul leave his body. With that breath, he becomes smaller, and smaller, and smaller. I watch as he walks away, weak, minuscule, a shell of one I once knew. I watch the feeling leave his eyes. I watch his back as it pauses at the door, the small face upon the small body looking back at me, eyes empty, black, and gone.

The door shuts.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch. 

Heartbeat.