The Chosen

But then another, more sensible voice screamed at her. Bullshit, Vera! You’re going to go in there! Right now! You’re not going to chicken out!

All right, all right, she agreed with herself. She withdrew her key, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

She expected a mess, and contrived den of drugs and iniquity, but when she stepped into the living room, it looked exactly as she remembered it: neat and tidy, everything in its place. What do I do now? she wondered. She felt imbecilic standing there. Just walk down the hall, go into the bedroom, and get it over with.

She turned, took one step into the hall—

Paul nearly walked into her.

“Dammit, Paul!” Vera yelled. “You scared the shit out of me!”

Paul had turned out of the hall just as she had turned into it. The moment held him in a mute shock. He blinked hard and stared—then rejoiced: “Vera! You’re back!”

“Yeah, I’m back to get my things,” she said, and brushed by him. “And that’s it.” She stormed into the bedroom, expecting to see evidence of Paul’s decadent secret life, but the bedroom, like the rest of the apartment, was clean and orderly. Come to think of it, Paul himself looked…normal, she considered. Dressed in jeans and the typical flannel shirt he wore when he wrote. He looked like the Paul she’d always known, not a sadomasochistic drug denizen she’d seen the last time she was in this room.

Paul jabbered as he scampered behind her. “Vera, Vera! I’ve been looking all over for you! We really need to talk!”

“No, Paul. We don’t need to talk, I need to talk.” She traipsed about the room, but, now that she was here, she really couldn’t think of anything she wanted. So just say what you came here to say, she resolved.

“You’re a deceitful, cheating scumbag, Paul,” she said, staring him down. “I can’t believe what you did to me, and by now I don’t even care—”

“But—but—” Paul stammered.

“And that’s really all I came here to say Paul. You’re a—”

“But Vera!”

“—lecherous, disgraceful—”

“Please, listen to me!”

“—disgusting—”

“Vera! No!”

“—piece of shit.”

They faced each other then, in thickening silence. That should shut him up, Vera thought. Watch. Next I’ll bet he’ll say something really original, like ‘You don’t understand’ or ‘Let me explain.’ What a pathetic schmuck.

“I know what you must think, and I know how you feel,” he began.

“No, you don’t!” she spat back. She rummaged through the closet, then the dresser. All her old things refaced her now, but they seemed tainted, poisoned. She didn’t even want them anymore. “You don’t know how I feel, and you don’t give a shit anyway,” she finished.

Paul tremored in place. “Vera, at least let me explain.”

Vera laughed. Yes, so predictable. “What’s to explain, Paul?” Then she marched out of the bedroom and back down the hall. “But since you’re so talkative, tell me this? How long were you cheating on me?’’