We Didn’t Start the Fire

He pours himself a glass of scotch while she stands there, tilting her head to catch his eye, as if looking at her will help the situation that has arisen in the past months, as if the death and destruction and hurt has now all gone away, as if the simple, “I wish my apology meant something” could account for what she’s done to him, what she’s done to hurt him.

He scoffs, drinks the scotch, and hisses through his teeth; before he takes another drink, he looks up at her and shrugs. “I wish it could have happened sooner,” he says, and it’s all he says until he disappears into his room, where there’s no one, no one who cares about him, no one who will knock on his door and coerce him into leaving the room; he has no one – not anymore.