The Pebble Creek House


Just Another Escapist

I knew no matter how I dressed I would find a way to regret it, so I chose comfort, since that was the one thing which would be in short supply.

And right I was, after a quiet greeting, from the moment I was admitted into the foyer and we walked along the runners into the high-ceilinged living room. It was early afternoon, the house was quiet. I answered her queries into the gap that had grown between our lives, while avoiding her gaze by revisiting the many trinkets and paintings on shelves and walls that had once been familiar. We didn't sit down. I thought to ask about her nephew and instantly felt a pang of guilt that was reflected in her own face. She masked it by adjusting her hair, far more grey than in years past. Once, her eyes had enamored me, locked us into a visual embrace during many long and heartfelt discussions that stretched late into the night. Later than was prudent, but never unacceptably so.

Now as strangers we stood apart, and I voiced the sharp truth.

"I shouldn't have come back."


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