She wants to say she never believed him, that she only wanted to. That she'd known better, when he'd whispered 'I love you' and slipped inside her. She wants to wish away those nights they'd fallen asleep next to one another, those long car rides home, her head on his shoulder. To burn the snapshots from her retinas; steering wheels and headlights, you and me under those same stars.
More importantly, she wants to know when. When loving her turned into that lesser artistic representation he always strove to avoid. In the end, when you pressed your hands against my flesh, did you even see me or the woman you wished I was?
And why. Always, why. Why he'd pulled her through the loops and verses of everyday living, knowing he'd already replaced her in every way but one. I couldn't have loved you better.
As if he knows she's gone rather suddenly blank, he rushes to her rescue. In some dim, distant part of her brain, she's grateful that he's still capable of reading her mind, her cues. Even if he's forsaken the right to do so. "It wasn't you. You didn't do anything wrong. I didn't stop, and I didn't go looking. It happened, and I made a choice."
The right choice. She doesn't need to read his mind to hear the unspoken words. Whatever vestige of love he has left for her, entirely eclipsed by the woman who'd stolen him away. What do you do with love like that?
You let it go. You pour a drink. And tomorrow, you begin a life with no restraints on your heart.
So I'm sitting here, snuggled by myself in my warm bed, watching DVDs and painting my nails, sipping on some extra sweet Chardonnay. Raise your glass with me tonight world! Elle put on her big girl panties and decided to let go.