The Utmost Sympathy

"God, Ben! You have a wonderful way of making people regret ever meeting you. He's my cousin for Chrissakes!" These words are carried from the bedroom, down the hall, and into the living room, by the sheer of the anger in Madeline's voice. Directly behind them is the form from which they propelled, struggling through the small apartment with a large suitcase in each hand and a decent-sized bag slung over her left shoulder.

His attempts to prevent her from leaving haven't quite let up, just yet. "C'mon Maddy, don't do this. I didn't mean it!"

This is about as far as he's able to get before the positively livid woman he is speaking to abruptly drops her bags and glares at him. Her piercing green eyes seem to shoot through him as though he were the lowest scum on earth, and her voice is colder than the most depth of the arctic ocean.

"You ALWAYS mean it, Benjamin, and nothing EVER changes. I'm tired of you accusing me of sleeping with every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the face of the planet. I'M not the one who has a problem with monogamy." She lifts her right hand and applies her palm to the center of his chest pushing forward with as much as she can muster. "Move," she commands, even as she's moving him, grinning crookedly as he stumbles backwards, enabling her to scoop up her luggage and scoot past him.

The defeated man actually appears to have deflated, shrinking back within himself like a reprimanded child. For perhaps the thirteenth time since the argument started, he ones a hand through his hair as he finds himself overwhelmed by yet another bout of speechlessness. He manages to stutter out a few syllables with obvious effort, "B--But, but Mad," he sighs forcefully, then continues, "How the h---, I mean, seriously, how was I supposed to know who he was?"

Quickly returning to that haven of defensiveness, he takes a step after the woman who has only stopped because she's reached the door and set down her bags, once more. "He's called everyday for the past week and each time, you've run off somewhere with the telephone. Can you blame me for being suspicious?" Yet again, a step is taken, though he remains ready to dodge any incoming missiles she might send his way.

"Yes! I can!" The doorknob turns and she's whipping the door aside, allowing it to slam against the wall without so much as a wince. She whirls toward him, her auburn hair fanning out around her shoulders. "I most definitely CAN." Knees bend, fingers grasp handles, and she's now slowly, so very slowly, backing up, as though willing him to stay put.

"Aren't you at least going to tell me why he's been ringing our phone off the hook?" As though atrophied, his muscles refuse to carry him across their distance. His eyes linger upon his bare feet for a moment, before he looks up at her once more, his honey brown eyes pleading, his voice hoarse as he whispers, "please?"