Ripcord

Standing in front of the gas stove; making dinner for the kids.

Chicken for the casserole, gravy to flavor the rice, and broccoli to balance it all out. It was one of your favorite recipes.

Leaving for work in your usual rush, the silence between us had been deafening for weeks.

Ever since the day I guessed your secret...though you were careful to delete it all, you thought locking it away behind your fingerprint would be enough.

You underestimated my intuition, my skilled resourcefulness, my determined nature to not be deceived.

You, pausing at the door to say, "Are you sure this is what you want?"

Me, pausing mid-sauté over peppered chicken, the lingering memory of your well-seasoned lies still heavy on my heart.

Then the words, not yet fully formed in my mind, tumble from my lips with a precise clarity heavy gaslighting rarely afforded.

"This was never what I wanted... you--asking me if I am sure is like asking me if I want to pull the cord on my parachute after you pushed me out of the plane--you left me no choice."

Shrugging, you walk out the door, my words hanging heavily over the pan of rice I could never seem to cook just right.