Not a country song

Not a country song.

She looked perplexed. Kerfluzzled.

It took her a bit too long to respond to the question:

“Do you love the man whose ring you wear?”

“He’s nice; he’s good” she deflected.

“Do you love the man whose engagement ring you wear?”

She bit her lip, looked up, then away, then down, around

thunderstruck

mouth open, silent as if I’d declared him dead and her alive.

She couldn’t figure out if she ran away from them – all of them –

a gathering of the dead, dying, immobilized wishful thinkers and women haters,

to him, a port in the storm, warmth on a cold night…a kind touch, few expectations.

She didn’t want to hurt the man

even as she realized she did not want his seed to be with hers

to create her children,

that he is not the one with whom she wished to share a lifetime of morning coffees.

She’d waited just a moment too long to answer the question,

couldn’t deflect the wave that hit her full on, jump on, fake it, and ride it out this time.