Sabotage

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Last night I cried.  I cued my tears (like an actress on stage), then pled the reasons for my sadness inside.  Behind closed doors, I coiled.

Each word and tear-a performance sans viewers.  My testimony, the emptiest of gestures. 

I figured: if people knew what I had done-to him and us, to our affair-it would seem more noble if they knew I had cried.  Then I smiled suddenly.  I felt pleased with the triumph of my undermining task-starting arguments, calling names.  Acting archaic 'till he'd get up and leave.  Now he is gone, and I have to be glad.  I am glad.  But no one needs to know that.