The Breakup

Late October… We’re driving at high speed in the pouring rain. The coastline is jagged under the harsh glare of streetlights, and the sea is inky black. The silence is heavy; Kim clings to the steering wheel like a rider to her reins, and every time we pass a streetlamp, I catch a glimpse of her beauty mark, right there at the base of her jaw. I have a crazy urge to touch it and caress her cheek, but I resist. Resisting—that was the key!

A few minutes earlier, over a glass of delicious wine, my hands had gently moved away from hers and my mouth had uttered those dreaded words:

 "Kim, this has to stop. I'm leaving you and I don't want to see you anymore."

She smiled at me, but I could see she didn't believe me. She argued, but I remained deaf to her words. I slowly put on my gloves to signal that it was over. She stopped abruptly, took the last sip of her wine with a mechanical gesture, then stood up suddenly.

Without a word, we went to her car, and the next moment we were in front of my house, the only music to this tragic and pathetic scene being the drums of the sky pounding against the poor car's bodywork. I discreetly wiped away my tears; she wanted my handkerchief as a souvenir; she would always keep it in her motorcycle jacket. God, how childish! God, how I love her!

Je bondis hors de la voiture, ivre de douleur et, sous le déluge assourdissant, lui murmure de loin :  » Adieu ». Accrochée au grillage du portail, je suis tétanisée et tremblante. Je tourne la tête une dernière fois. Elle est sortie de la voiture, en pleurs et immobile, elle crie en silence:  » Je t’aime ! » Une explosion en plein visage comme une révélation.