His crossed arms answered her question before he spoke. Already she knew that whatever his verdict, once rendered, it would be as inflexible as hardened cement.
She’d posed the question to him a whole five minutes earlier. It had to be asked. The wedding was less than a month away.
Shall we call the whole thing off?
He frowned. Deep creases formed above his brow, and when he answered her, his demeanor suggested a teacher on the brink of patience exhausted, trying to educate a less than capable student.
Unless you are willing to see the light and come around to my way of thinking, I do not foresee any other course to take.
It was clear to her that he would not compromise. She appraised his appearance. The crisp crease in his wool gabardine trousers that lined up perfectly with the chalk stripes of the fabric. The precisely folded square of silk in his breast pocket. His flawlessly shined shoes. A stark contrast to her own wrinkled rayon frock, and haphazardly upswept hair that threatened to escape from its pins.
His arms were still crossed. A barricade to any future they might have shared. She noted his cuff links, barely peeking out from the edge of his jacket sleeve. Not the simple monogrammed brass cuff links she had given to him, but fine gold and mother of pearl. Ones he’d purchased for himself.
There was nothing sentimental about cement.
She stamped her foot. A single stray brown sugar strand came loose from the nest atop her head, and it was as though her entire being became unpinned.
Now Gloria. Don’t get excited.
There was conviction in her voice.
She turned to leave the room-to leave him.