Page 33 of The Man in the Painting

“But I...I want you, Abram,” I mutter, letting go of my last bit of dignity. If begging was what it took to have him at this point, I feel like I’d do it over and over again. “I want you to be my first. Please.”

Abram closes his eyes for a second and sighs deeply.

He opens his eyes and turns to look me in the eyes.

“Your first should be with a younger man, Melody,” he says in a matter-of-fact tone. “Someone special like you’ve always wanted.”

“But I want you,” I say, my voice catching in my throat.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Abram snaps. “I’m not...I’m not the man for you.”

It suddenly feels like he’s lodged a knife in my heart and keeps driving it in deeper with each word he utters.

How can a man make me burn with desire one second and cause me such insurmountable pain in the next?

Abram rises from the couch and clears his throat softly. “Goodnight, Melody,” he says quietly and walks away from me without a second glance.

I sit there staring blankly at the wall, barely aware of the stinging cold against my exposed skin. It’s nothing compared to the inner chill that’s spreading rapidly through my entire body.

I don’t realize I’m crying until a teardrop splatters on the back of my palm with a mocking splash.

I raise my hand to my face, blinking at the moisture in surprise. Then, I laugh, a dry, mirthless sound that seems to echo mockingly in the quiet of the room.

I wonder what my mama would say if she saw me like this.

I told you so...

Probably.

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