I Stand Corrected

I Stand Corrected

Krysta Walker

I'm staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror, wondering why I am back here. Why do I always come back. How many times have I told myself that this was it. I'd never come back here. But why do I always return? Why do I always run back?

It certainly isn’t because I love him. I don’t. How could I. he's rude, condescending and absurdly full of himself. He always speaks down to me. Always looks down on me. I have no reason to love him. And I have absolutely no reason to be back, parked in front of his house.

Why is he my weakness. Why do I care what he thinks of me. I shouldn’t. I don’t love him. I’d like to kill the guy. But why am I back here? I don’t even remember getting in my car and driving over here. Why would I do that?

Yesterday I had flung my clothes into a suitcase and stormed out his house. Looking in the back seat, I see that I haven’t even taken the stupid thing out the car. Like some part of me knew that I’d be back after I thought it over. I hate myself for this addiction.

Maybe Dr. Reed was right. Am I a masochist? But isn’t that what love is? Masochism? Doesn’t it sting repeatedly and yet everyone always come crying back. Why am I even bringing this up. I don’t love him.

I don’t.

Still, I find myself walking the path to his door. I see my fist gently pounding the wood. He’s opening the door and I'm staring into his face, seeing his red rimmed eyes. He’s been crying? How could I possibly love a man who cries every time I leave him.

"Hey," he says. His voice is thick and husky.

"Hey," I say. My voice is the same.

He pulls me to his chest. I can smell his soap. Who could love this smell? Who could love this wrinkled t-shirt wearing, Irish Spring smelling man? Who?

"I love you, Candace."

"I love you too, Mitch."

Me, that's who.