I watch the rain outside my window. Dripping, lightly falling, glistening in the twilight, like a cliché. My heart is breaking, and the rain falls in a mockery of externalized emotion. Pathetic.
Am I causing the rain with my sadness? Do I possess super-powered angst? Or is this happening because of the rain? If it were a beautiful sunshiny day, would he even be doing this?
What a tired trope. You turn thirty-five and your biological clock kicks in. You want different things. You break up. Cue the sad, cold drizzle. No one ever has a broken heart in the sun.
The leaves fall off the trees. The autumn of the year, the autumn of our lives, time to get serious, time to settle down. Thirty-five. The gender reversal gets some points for originality, I suppose. It probably says something about me that I read my life like I’m reviewing a book.
But isn’t it a profoundly selfish thing to ask someone to put their body through almost a year of misery, to torture it in a way that it may never recover from, to go through the worst agony imaginable and risk death itself, just so you can have a mini version of yourself running around? How am I the bad guy here?
I’m thirty-six, and no closer to wanting kids. If I don’t want it by now, I’m not going to. But I have no right to keep him from his dream. Right? Staying together would be cruel to him. But what he’s doing is cruel to me. But things change, I guess. Things end.
It’s just the timing I mind.
It’s just the space.
Why did it have to be in the rain?