Broken. Megan Hart

my cheek, then gently but firmly pushes me from him and leaves the kitchen. I stare after him, pissed off. I follow him.

      “Hey!”

      He’s put on his coat. He turns, hand on the doorknob.

      “You’re leaving?” I put my hands on my hips, indignant. “Just like that?”

      Joe nods once, so solemn I feel like I can’t really rage at him. I mean…it was a hookup, yeah, I get it. But it was really, really great sex, the kind that’s worth breakfast, at least.

      “But…”

      He shakes his head, stopping me. Then he opens the door and leaves. Only when it’s closed behind him do I realize he never bothered to ask my name.

      Joe twirled a straw paper in his fingers, knotting it. He didn’t look at me. He hadn’t looked at me since he sat down.

      “Why didn’t you ask her name?” I hadn’t eaten anything. I hadn’t even opened my lunch bag. Though I was only a few inches away from Joe on the bench, it might as well have been miles.

      He turned, slowly. Our eyes met. I drew in a breath and held it. The look he gave me was a challenge of some sort.

      “Because it didn’t matter.”

      Maybe her name didn’t matter, but his reason for not asking did. His story comforted me. This was the Joe I knew, the teller of tales and splitter of peaches. Not the man who last month had threatened to upset the balance of our relationship by wanting to change.

      “About last month,” I said finally. “I’m sorry.”

      He shrugged. “You were right.”

      I nodded, as if he’d made a longer explanation. Not even when we first met had our silence been so uncomfortable. I had to look away, at last, afraid my face showed too much of what I couldn’t say.

      “I wasn’t even planning on going home with her,” he said after a minute. “Or with anyone.”

      “So…why did you?” I couldn’t help the fascination.

      “C’mon, Sadie. You know how it is.”

      “No, actually. I don’t.”

      Joe let a puff of air seep from his lips, not quite a whistle. “You’ve never?”

      “No. Never.” I shook my head to further emphasize my point.

      “You’ve never been with someone only once.” His tone sounded disbelieving or envious, I wasn’t sure which.

      “I’ve only been with one man.” The admission wasn’t shameful, just…the truth. It seemed to shock Joe, who probably couldn’t comprehend my experience any more than I could his.

      “Only one.”

      “Yes.”

      He shook his head a bit. “Good for you.”

      I laughed a little. “You’re avoiding the question. If you weren’t planning on going home with someone, why did you?”

      “Because I could. Because she asked. Because…I always do.”

      I made a small noise, shaking my head as I unwrapped my lunch. Joe looked over at me as he unscrewed the cap on his bottle of soda. He took a long, slow drink. I imagined him tasting like lemon and vodka and kept my eyes carefully on my sandwich.

      “Haven’t you ever done something just because it’s easier to do it than not?”

      I didn’t have to think long before answering. “Of course.”

      “Tell me.”

      “It’s not as exciting as your story, Joe.”

      He smiled, leaning forward. “No? That’s too bad. Tell me, anyway.”

      I was used to giving people what they wanted. Joe was used to getting it. I told him.

      “When I was growing up, my sister and I fell into these…stereotypes, I guess you could say. I was the smart one. She was the pretty one. We kept it up through college, and I guess even now. It’s stupid, but you know how families are.”

      “Try being the disappointing one.”

      I leaned back on the bench to study him. He was impeccably dressed, as always. Today his shirt was blue, his favorite color. It made his eyes seem greener than usual. He was the epitome of a clean-cut businessman. Whatever he did, he did it too well to be a disappointment.

      I laughed. “Oh, you aren’t. You can’t be. Look at you, Mr. Successful.”

      He shrugged, smiling. “My parents aren’t impressed with fancy suits and expensive ties.”

      I knew he had a sister who was married with children and a brother who’d died. This was the first time I’d heard him talk about his parents.

      “As far as ties go, it’s a very nice one,” I told him. “Even if they don’t like it, I do.”

      He gave me a one-eyed, squinting grin that made me laugh. “Yeah? You’re impressed by this tie?”

      “Keep in mind my knowledge of men’s haute couture is pretty limited.”

      He stroked the fabric. “I like this one, too.”

      The silence between us wasn’t awkward this time.

      “Sometimes,” Joe said after a bit, “it’s just easier to keep being what everyone expects you to be. Even if that’s what you’re not, anymore.”

      I nodded, agreeing, and he got up to toss his trash into the pail. “I wasn’t sure you’d be back, after what I said.”

      “I couldn’t stay away. I thought about it all month. Just not showing up.”

      “So…why did you?”

      A slow, hot smile spread across his mouth. “Because I always do.”

      I was trying to decide between two mugs of the same shade but different shapes, my concentration entirely focused on my choices, when the distinct sensation of a foreign gaze on the back of my neck prickled my skin. I glanced up, but the man across the aisle appeared as engrossed in his shopping as I was. A look to either side showed us as the only two customers in housewares. Convinced I was imagining it, I bent back to my decision.

      Again, I sensed someone staring. This time, instead of looking up, I let my eyes shift from side to side. Nothing. A gradual turn of my head revealed my fellow mug aficionado had moved a bit closer. He picked up a flowered coffee mug, turning it to and fro, then set it back on the shelf.

      I turned back to the selection in front of me, but couldn’t concentrate. I wanted something new for my bathroom. It wasn’t brain surgery. I needed to pick one, just one, and yet my every sense now strained toward the man standing behind me. I grabbed up one of the mugs, finally, and stuck it in my cart. I looked over my shoulder.

      He was looking at me.

      “Excuse me,” he began.

      Time slowed as I turned, expectant of something benign. A question. “What’s the time?” or “Do you work here?”

      “Are you available for dating?”

      My face must have shown my shock. “What?”

      Details registered. He had long hair, more than a bit unkempt. He wore a shapeless fatigue jacket and matching, slightly ragged pants. Oh, lord. He was probably part of some outpatient program at the V.A. Hospital.

      “Well, I didn’t see a wedding ring…”

      I looked automatically to my left hand, where I was, indeed, wearing my wedding ring. I was so stunned by this, the first outright proposition I’d had in as long as I could remember, that I couldn’t even speak. I could only stare.

      He