The Exact Cut

The coffee was still hot,

but the air had turned

to winter. I watched

her eyes widen, just

a fraction, before the words

landed. A small animal

caught in the headlights.

I heard it again this morning,

her voice thin, recounting it

to someone I couldn't see,

the exact cadence

of my cruelty. Not the whole tirade,

just that one precise phrase.

"You've always chosen

the easy way out," I'd said.

And her mouth,

even then,

had pulled tight,

a seam sewn shut. The truth

doesn't need

to shout.