Take Care, Sara

struggling. Her heart pounded with his proximity. Her body responded to Lincoln whether she wanted it to or not. She didn’t want it to. She didn’t want to feel about him the way she did. Especially now, at this moment, when he was saying what he was saying.
    “I just want you to know that he wasn’t your only chance at happiness, that he wasn’t the only man you can love. I just want…I just want you to admit you care about me. Something. I want something from you, Sara, and I’m getting nothing.”
    You have more of me than you know. Sara couldn’t tell him that. It was true, but she couldn’t say the words. As he stared down at her, the pull of him was too powerful, hypnotic. She didn’t understand why a yearning was forming inside her, pulsating with need, longing for something, for Lincoln . Sara’s eyes remained locked with his as she angled her face up. His brows lowered, his breathing quickened.
    What are you doing ? something inside her screamed and Sara leaned back in her chair, shaking and unnerved. “I think…maybe…”
    Lincoln straightened; his facial expression empty. He crossed to the front door. “Yeah. Take care, Sara,” he said as he opened the door, but there was a hint of mockery to it.
    ***
    He hadn’t been perfect. He’d been a little too prideful at times, and even somewhat selfish, but Sara had loved him anyway. He’d been her husband, her world, and she’d loved him. And now—She inhaled deeply, briefly closing her eyes—now there was pain and loss where the love had been. Lincoln had no right to point out his flaws to her, as if she hadn’t already known them, as if Sara would forget them.
    When Sara thought of Lincoln, her insides knotted uncomfortably and she felt a little sick. It made her think of him—her husband—less, and that brought relief and guilt with the realization. Most days she felt emotionless, especially when her thoughts went to him. There was just…a void where he was supposed to be and that hurt the most. The thought of closing her eyes and never reopening them was appealing. It was as if all the grief she’d had stored up for him had evaporated or been buried with him to be replaced with nothing. Sara was nothing. She felt nothing. Why not feel nothing forever?
    She wanted to hate Lincoln for making her feel when that was the last thing she wanted. The numbness faded when he was near. He brought life back to her, and it was painful and stinging like a limb coming awake after going to sleep from disuse. Sara hung her head as she leaned against the kitchen sink, her hands gripping the edges of it. She almost hated Lincoln for forcing her to live, but of course, she hated herself more. Sara especially hated how she had a life to live and she was wasting it and couldn’t find the courage, the strength, to not let it rot away.
    If God was really around, she’d like to ask Him why. She’d like to ask Him why about a lot of things, but most prominent in her mind was: why her? She was ungrateful, unworthy of the life she had. If Sara could give it back to her husband she would. Too late, Sara. It’s too late for that.
    “Are you here?” someone asked. It took a moment for Sara to realize that the unfamiliar voice was hers; high and breathless and distorted.
    She slowly turned around, wondering what she would see, wondering what she would hear. It was her kitchen, same as it should be. The air didn’t shift, no image produced itself, and there was no disembodied voice. There was no one. It made her sad, which Sara realized was probably not a good sign. Pretty soon she’d be having full conversations with inanimate objects.
    The pull to leave the house was profound. Sara quickly washed the plate and cup from her supper. The peanut butter and honey toast and milk had been tasteless, but it had reduced the gnawing sensation in her stomach. She tugged on a coat and stood before the closed front door, thinking of the painting of the blue door the color of his eyes. Her hand trembled as it reached for the doorknob; Sara already knew where she would go. Something in him called to her, or maybe it was as simple as she didn’t want to be alone.
    Sara opened the door, icy air brushing over her as she stepped outside. The month was April, but the nights said it was still January in temperature. It was dark out, sporadic streetlamps adding a hazy glow to the houses and not completely thawed ground, giving it a surreal look. She hurried to the car. Sara