He’s all apologies and explanations; he finally knows what he wants. “I know what I want too,” she tells him as he holds her hand. “And it’s not you.” I get up from my table in the tea house and sit on the daybed. “And it’s not you,” I say out loud. It feels good, this rebuke. I imagine the sting on his face. The surprise that I would have moved on, me in my little life. “And it’s not you,” I say again and start to cry, because of course it’s not true.
