Snapshot

by Kay Cove

Alan scoots in closer, wrinkling our picnic blanket. Rubbing his thumbs under my eyes, where tears should be. “Just tell me how you feel.” “What’s off with us?” I whisper. He looks away; suddenly, the green-brown grass is captivating to him. “I guess what’s off is the fact that you think something’s off. This is all news to me.” “You don’t feel it?” He forces himself to face me. Holding my gaze, he slowly shakes his head. “Not until about ten seconds ago. How long have you been unhappy?” “I’m not unhappy.” I grab his face in both of my hands, his barely-there stubble scraping against my palms. “Not at all.” He glances at my phone. “Then why don’t you smile like that when you’re texting me?” “Like what?” I ask, my tone defensive. “And how would you know? You can’t see my face when we’re texting.” “It’s just a metaphor. What I’m trying to say is there have been little clues I’ve been ignoring. I see how things are going to end with us. And I think…” He exhales deeply. I shake my head fervently. “Alan, please don’t. We were having a perfectly nice picnic. I’ll put my phone away. You have my full attention.” “I’d rather we face things now than drag this out.” I ignore the throbbing in my head that’s matching the pounding in my heart. A perfect synchronization of rapid pulsing. It’s my instincts telling me something bad is about to happen. Pretending like I’m composed, I ask, “Drag what out?” “Us. You want to break up, don’t you?” “Don’t be ridiculous. You are the best man I’ve...