#45 A Piece

by Robin Sauerwein

When she first contacted him by letter, she had questions, saved up from a lifetime. Maybe she was wrong about what happened. He could clear up all those unsettled memories that clouded her mind, robbed her of feeling good about herself.

He could have changed, went to therapy.

He responded back.

“In those days, no one told us it was wrong. I was worried. I was trying to help you,” he wrote.

Those words opened up new scars like an onion’s skin once removed brings on the tears.

Scum.

She waited in the Burger King parking lot where they agreed to meet.

He appeared, looking much older with a well-groomed mustache hiding his boyish features but with same eyes -the color of velvety caramel -that used to probe into her soul as a child.

He looked scared.

Did she want money, a confession, an apology, a promise he couldn’t keep? He thought.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Instead of words, the piece of candy held tightly in her mouth flew out. It shot out like from a trebuchet pelting him right between his eyes, that as a child, she looked into for support.

He stared at her in disbelief then turned away.

She watched his shadow disappear across the pavement and out of her life for good.