his last drink

She contemplated jumping. Then a brave yet gentle voice crept into her mind, “Why20140212-093952 should you be the one who leaves?”  She thought about all of the years she spent cowering under his abuse. All of the excuses she made for his behavior. All of the lies she told to protect his name. His name. “What about your name?” the voice implored. She gazed at his portrait of her, one of but many of his famous paintings. There it sat in the corner of the hearth behind his nearly empty glass of sangria, a metaphor of her life with him. “Do it tonight.”