She wept on the patio.
Between inhales of griefs mixed with smoke.
He asked for a cigarette. She handed him the box, trying to control herself, act like an adult. But as he sat beside her, more sobs erupted.
The iron chair on the patio felt like a well-worn sofa, as comfortable as the emotions she had practiced there before. Still, he said nothing as she spilled despair between breaths.
The tobacco worked. The bud spent, thrown in the bucket of water, and she left him to undress still wearing her emotions and climb into bed. If she could smoke inside, she would still be, to calm herself.
He joined her. She didn't wait.
"Things can't keep going the way they are. I'm confused by it. The boys are, too. He asks me about it, why you are here some days and not others."
"I can talk to him about it."
"I don't know what you would say about it. I don't know what to say myself, and I'm better at words than you are."
He said nothing.
"We should try to live together again as a family."
"I don't see why things would be any different this time."
"Perhaps things would be, now that we know how things went badly last time. We would know how to do things differently. And, of course, we would know that this would be the last time, no more chances."
"You're never happy no matter what I do. You can't be happy, married or single. Why would you want me again this time?"
"I miss you... when you're gone."
Silence again. She hoped her words convinced him of her sincerity.
"I've heard those words before."
"Yes, but, this time, I know I can't be happy with anyone but you. It's either you or no one."
"You've said that before too. I wonder if you mean it this time."
She was wrong. Nothing she could say would taken truthfully.
They continued for a hour more. He pointed out every flaw in her personality, past actions, and family history. She tried to paint a vision of the future.
Eventually, it turned it into a matter of pain. She trying to inflict a cut for every one he committed and he... well, she didn't know why he was still there.
"You're pathetic. You've never taken care of yourself. You've lived off the tit of your mother, then the Navy, then me, and now you're back with your mother. How can I respect a man who has never taken care of himself?"
She would have happily taken care of him if he could only act like a man worthy of it.
"You're never happy. Alone or together, you're miserable. You'll always be miserable."
He was right. She was seeking something that would make this life right.
But her mother spent her whole childhood stricken in her bed from depression, unable to offend anyone, because she did nothing at all. He had no idea how lucky he was to see her up and moving around, being a mother to her children, saying she loved him, saying she hated him, saying she felt any fucking emotion at all, no matter how flawed.
In her soul, she was stuck in that dark bedroom, clawing an identity out of the example made for her.
"Maybe I won't be happy either way. But I have to keep trying."
He left. She was honest about her madness but it was too much to handle. He wasn't the first man to admit not being man enough, but she needed to be woman enough to continue on the road. There was no reason to lose hope.