REYES, Larissa Maia G.

CW100 THW1, Creative Activity 1

BA Creative Writing, 202004418 12 March 2021

AN ABRUPT END TO DINNER (AND TO US)

(1) The door clicks quietly behind him. Standing on his porch, far from the dining table
does wonders for muffling the murmuring that had followed him all the way out. Now, the
silence makes his ears ring. 

(2) Somehow he can’t decide which is worse—the all-consuming shame and hurt he left in
the dining room, or the bitter realization that the woman he loves no longer loves him back? 

(3) The car she used to drive to his family’s house is long gone, leaving only tire tracks and
the barest hint of smoke in the air. At the back of his mind, he remembers that he left his old
coat in the backseat of her worn-out Prius, and his heart aches once more at the realization that
she will soon have to mail it back to him along with the other belongings he left in her
apartment. 

(4) Will she even hesitate to take out his clothes from their shared dresser? Will her hand
hover over the tiny succulent he bought for her resting on the windowsill? How long will it take
her to rid her apartment of his presence? A month, a week?

(5) An hour?

(6) It doesn’t feel real. The air feels thick and sluggish as he wades through it to walk far, far
away from his parents’ home, all the way to the bench three streets away where he had watched
the sunset with her not even twenty-four hours ago. Every step brings his attention to the ring
in his pocket, hyperaware of the way it presses against the material of his jeans. 

(7) It only takes a few minutes for him to reach his destination, his heart still feeling
deliciously numb when the lone bench comes into sight. If he could, he would enjoy the sense of
nothingness a bit more knowing that after this comes the heart-wrenching pain, but he can’t
think past the thick haze surrounding his mind.

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REYES, Larissa Maia G. CW100 THW1, Creative Activity 1
BA Creative Writing, 202004418 12 March 2021
(8) He thinks nothing of the way the cold metal presses uncomfortably against his back as
he lets his weight sink into the bench, nor does he pay mind to the way it creaks almost
disturbingly when he hunches over himself and buries his face in his hands. He breathes in.
Out. If he lets his thoughts drift for even one second, he’ll be back on his knees in that dining
room, ring in his hand and the sinking realization that she looks horrified—

(9) In. Out. He is alone on the bench. The sun has long since set, and all that awaits him
now is the darkness and the evening chill as it sinks through the thin fabric of his clothes. His
hands feel clammy as he pulls out the ring from his pocket, watching it reflect the barely-there
light from the street light a few meters away. The urge to throw it away as hard as possible is
strong.

(10) Instead, he clenches it in his fist tightly, focusing on the way it bites into his skin. When
a dog barks from a distance, he flinches. The ring somehow slips through his grasp and he
watches helplessly as it rolls under a bush.

(11) Panic is the first emotion to break through his haze. He scrambles to the bush, hands
desperately reaching under it, trying to feel for the ring. The dim light from the street light is
barely any help, but he somehow manages to find it. Panic is replaced by relief, and when his
eyes begin to well up with tears, he has no will to fight against it.

(12) There, in the bushes, he finally allows himself to cry.