broken

I thought she could weather anything. She had certainly suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune better than I, who had tried to fight back--to all the effect of a man shouting at the thunder from a rooftop. While I railed at the world, she endured. And if I knew my share of hurts, so did she--but quietly, always quietly.

It wasn't like she was hiding from it, or just keeping it in. There was this serenity in her eyes. She well and truly weathered it. I really admired her for it. I often told her so, especially when things were at their worst for us.

Then, one night, she snapped. We were at a cocktail party. It had been a rough week and we were both looking forward to the chance to unwind, to talk, to laugh. And at first everything seemed fine, and the night wore on and we'd both had more than enough to drink. She was starting to look a little sick. Then someone said something--some jab about something she'd done a week or so ago, something I was sure was water under the bridge.

She laughed, but her smile broke. After a little more conversation she excused herself to the restroom, looking ill and unsteady.

When she didn't return after what seemed like half and hour, I went to go make sure she was all right, expecting to find her curled up by the toilet.

The door was locked, but when I called her name, after a moment, she cracked it open. She was leaning against the wall now with an effort, her hair in disarray, her face turned so I couldn't see it. As I locked the door behind us she sank to the floor and looked at me and smiled unconvincingly, closing one eye so I'd stay in focus. She'd been crying but had stopped by now. "I was sick," she said. "I think I'm ready to go home."

"Sure thing. Do you want me to call a cab?" I held out my hand so she could stand up.

"No!" she said, hurriedly. "No, I can walk. It'll clear my head." She staggered to her feet with my help and leaned on my shoulder. "It never stops," she said. "Sometimes I can't keep up."