metro centre parking lot

He called her anyway.
The air outside the car was cold enough to make her conscious of her body as she stepped out of the back seat, pulling her cardigan back on.
“Go ahead and call her. It’s okay.”
During moments like this she let herself give in to the stereotypes of her gender, saying things that she didn’t mean and always expecting the man to understand her true intentions. He didn’t; he never does. But she understood that he didn’t know and left her thoughts unsaid for the moment because she was tired of her saying what was on her mind when he could only meet her halfway, even when trying his best to understand.
He walked away as he dialed and faintly heard him say hello over the sound of her feet dragging on the cement. The street light cast a heavy shadow as she walked toward the nearby gas station. The sounds of car engines and people talking grew as she got near, and the sudden presence of strangers made her feel isolated. She had gotten used to the quiet and the stillness, the voices of two people, the intimacy, and the softness.
“Could I get the keys to the restroom, please?” The cashier pointed to the counter where the key lay, strung onto a rusty piece of metal that looked like it had been chewed on and dropped into the toilet too many times. The inside of the restroom had the same air of soiled indifference. The soap smelled too harsh and mold sat comfortably in the crease where the sink meets the wall. After washing her hands she leaned against the empty paper towel dispenser, wiping her palms on her jeans. She didn’t want to go back yet.
They had too deep a history to be rid of each other, even if they wanted to. She had moments when she wanted to forget his presence in her life, when she needed to create some distance. Even when they didn’t speak for a year because of all his betrayals and the layers of tension he refused to resolve, he still had some presence in her life. She always wrote about him, and so much of her creative energy stemmed from their relationship. When she painted, she could tell that he was, in some way, her muse. And she supposed it was the same with him; she never apologized to anyone as sincerely as he did to her, and no one made him feel more ashamed for his past actions. Although, she had to admit, he had never done anything so shameful to anyone else either.
Now they were at a point in their relationship where familiarity transcended intimacy and anger, where they still didn’t understand each other, and sometimes they didn’t want to, but ignorance was just accepted as another aspect of their closeness. They had gone through so much that whatever was to come couldn’t be significant enough to pry them apart.
Constantly, she asked herself if she wanted this. What did he think about their relationship? She never knew, and any serious talk about it couldn’t avoid the mention of the past, the history that was the ever threatening ghost, drifting in and out of their relationship, sparking anger and mistrust at awkward intervals.
Earlier in the day, she had told him, “I hate it when the guys I fuck talk with their ex-girlfriends or some other girl in their lives right after sex. I hate it. I don’t know why—it’s not like I even care about the emotion in sex or its sacredness and shit, but it makes me feel like nothing more than a whore when that happens. It’s so fucking… disrespectful. And dirty.”
That was less than seven hours ago.
The fact that he called her anyway made her question so many things; did he remember, or was he just insensitive; did he feel sorry again, and was he planning on apologizing. But this was one of those nights when she couldn’t think about questions like that. The handle of the restroom door was cold, and as she walked to the car, she slowed down when she saw that he was still on the phone. She hadn’t waited long enough. She lingered underneath the street light, watching that shadow of hers.
When he hung up he started to walk over to her, but she turned around and reached him before he came underneath the light. She didn’t want to see his face. In the car it still smelled of him and of her, of sweat and of sweetness, and the hint of warmth reminded her of home, for some reason.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry about calling her.”
“It’s okay. I told you to.”
“I know.”
She lit a cigarette; the flame cast her face in a strange orange glow, and he thought that she looked beautiful, but that she had lied when she said she was feeling okay. But that was alright, since both of them told small lies to each other, leaving truth for bigger things because in the past, big lies had bled them dry.