Tue 15 Nov 40 PY
Dear Diary,
Roger finished the painting last night. It is more abstract than
realistic. The face and eyes hold little expression. I am not sure if
it says more about him or me.
R. Dorothy Wayneright
Wed 16 Nov 40 PY
Last night, I decided to leave.
My room is packed up. I have tried to remove all traces of R. Dorothy
Wayneright from the walls, dressers, and closet. I succeeded in a half
of an hour.
Last night, I took a message from Mrs. Smith. She
wanted to know what Roger had said to Mr. Smith to set him off. Mr.
Smith had suffered a severe case of indigestion after the MP declared
that his son was wanted for kidnapping. The extreme heartburn resembled
a second heart attack.
It was Roger's family business and did not
concern me. Still, I was not happy about the silence. But that is not
why I'm leaving.
I can still see my arms folding Roger in an embrace. I nearly killed him. I am his Achilles' heel. But that is not quite it either.
After I served him his morning coffee, I told
him that I needed to talk to him. I told him that I was moving out.
Roger didn't look surprised. He didn't ask why. He didn't try to stop
me.
"Everyone should try to live out their lives to the fullest,"
Roger lectured in his Roger-Smith-knows-all voice. "I won't stand in
your way. But if you ever want to come back, there'll be a place for
you."
He wasn't cold about it, but I am not sure how I feel about what he said. That's why I want to be on my own for now.
R. Dorothy Wayneright