Ron Morelli

The charity of his eyes was what was most becoming to me.  How with one look I knew all the errors I created during our young and strenuous marriage would be forgiven.

When I told him I was finally leaving him, not because of anything he did, but because of my inability to be the best possible person for him, he merely nodded and with those eyes tilted down and away from me said, “Did you hear the news?  Yesterday Don Larsen pitched a perfect game for the Yankees in the World Series.”

We stood in silence then, his hands deep in his pockets, my arms crossed and our referee the single light bulb hanging in the kitchen between us.  The silence in the air was the complete opposite of the quick breathlessness that consumed our marriage at the very start, where spoken words were not needed and our dialogue was pure physical body punctuated by acts of erotica.

And joy.  Joy that oozed up from the cracks of our souls.  A laugh, a smile, the way one walked, the simple act of putting a toothbrush away.  The little brush strokes that composed the painting that narrated our marital landscape started in rich colors that quickly, too quickly, faded into muted hues.

He looked at me and explained, “The Yankees had a miracle yesterday. I just always thought you and I,” he swallowed hard, “would get one, too.”

First published: February, 2010
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