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Walk Away - A Short Story by Sydney Denise
- Sydney Denise
- Jul 24, 2024
- 13 min read
Chapter 1: Ruth
(Prelude)
I can't stand my fiancé, and it shows. Not enough to make me walk away, but the dissatisfaction simmers beneath the surface. Our wedding day, July 26th, 2025, looms ahead, and I find myself plotting ways to sabotage the union. Who said all women crave marriage, weddings, and children? I can name five things I truly want, and none of them fit that mold such as love, freedom, passion, legacy, and wealth. How did I end up here? I often ask myself every night as I lay next to him in bed. I'm not sure, but I need to find a way to walk away before it's too late.
I met my fiancé, Darius, four years ago. It was lust at first sight. We had so much fun together. Every day, we enjoyed each other's company—dinners, movies, cocktails, game nights, music nights, parties, nature trails, and more. The best part about living in Atlanta is that there's always something fun to do, especially when you're in your thirties. Our conversations seemed perfectly aligned: marriage, kids, careers, money, assets, and freedom. I truly believed I had found my life partner, and it felt amazing. Dating in Atlanta can be discouraging, so finding someone who exudes stability, consistency, and strong family values felt like a blessing. I often asked myself, why is this man single at 30 in Atlanta? With the high women-to-men ratio, every man could have two women and there would still be more women to go around. It's remarkable, and the place to be if you're a man.
Anyway, at the end of our third date, I found the answer to my question. The reason he's still single is that he's a one-minute man. Don't get it twisted, my pum pum is delicious but not that damn delicious. If I had known better then, I would have escaped as fast as possible, but my rational and empathetic side kicked in. Damnit! Being a woman can be so annoying at times. I found myself saying in my head, "Maybe he hadn't had sex in a while or maybe it was erectile dysfunction." I continued my self conversation with, "Ruth, don't judge him on the first time." Naturally, I am a very sexual woman. I love sex, but not with just anyone—only with someone I feel connected to. And as prude and selective as I am, I don't feel connected to just anyone. It takes a while to get to that point. There were times in the past where I let infatuation get the best of me, but as soon as it wore off, I chucked the deuces and deleted that man's number. I was so cutthroat back then, and maybe this is my payback—a one-minute man.
Needless to say, I shrugged off our first sexual encounter (if you could really call it that) and stuck by him to see if it got better. It didn't, so I found myself in therapy and with a boyfriend number two eight months later. I know what you're thinking: why didn't I just walk away? Well, I wish I had.
Chapter 2: Ruth
(Three Years Ago)
As my 31st birthday approaches, an unexpected sense of contentment washes over me. My job as a copyeditor pays well, even if it isn't my ultimate dream. My real aspiration is to publish my first novel, though the self-publishing path is proving daunting. I'm currently searching for a literary agent who can secure a promising deal or, at the very least, help launch my writing career.
Life, in general, is good. Darius and I have been together for eight months, and our relationship is refreshingly carefree. He brings a level of consistency that I never realized I was missing, and I've come to cherish it. Our only stumbling block is in the bedroom, but I remain hopeful. I've been reading blogs and forums from women with similar experiences, and their stories give me hope. They say you must teach a man how to love you right. I can handle that—if only I can help him last longer than a minute.
Today is Saturday, May 19, 2021, and the world is gradually reopening after fourteen months of pandemic lockdowns. In Atlanta, though, the shutdown felt brief. After three months, people were already venturing out again, me included. That’s how I met Darius—reckless, perhaps, but undeniable. He found me by the river, where I often wrote, while he was running along the trail. It turned out we had attended the same college a decade ago. Although we barely spoke back then, we shared mutual friends. Recognizing me, he struck up a conversation that led to hours of reminiscing about our college days at Georgia Southern University. I remember his smile while we spoke. It warmed my heart and genuinely made me happy. His smile was big. In college, he always had huge features—big nose, eyes, mouth, ears. He always looked so young, but a decade later, he finally grew into those features with a full beard to match. He actually looked handsome. Not to mention, tall with pecan-smooth skin. I thought to myself, we could produce some beautiful chocolate and caramel children.
Fast forward to now, we’re in love and discussing marriage and children. Yet, there's one issue that nags at me—a minor annoyance, really. To address it, I've booked an appointment with Dr. Washington, a therapist highly recommended by a coworker. I'm hopeful she can help. Determined to avoid being late, I leave my house extra early. Punctuality is crucial to me; time is precious, and lateness feels like a disrespect I cannot abide.
I arrive at the therapist's office at 9:50 a.m., with ten minutes to spare. I decide to use the time to work on my novel, which is nearly finished. It’s about Denise Santiago, a renowned sex therapist who gets canceled by social media for never having experienced an orgasm. Desperate to regain her followers and reputation, she delves into the dark web, agreeing to complete sinister tasks that plunge her into deeper trouble. I’ve titled it "Dirty Dee."
Just as I pull out my laptop, Dr. Washington greets me with a warm smile, revealing her straight, pearly white teeth. Despite being in her sixties, she is impeccably well-kept, with a head full of gray hair styled in a sleek bob and healthy edges that outshine my own. Her fresh, makeup-free face radiates with brown sugar skin, adorned only with a striking red lipstick that complements her flawless teeth. Her appearance inspires me to take better care of myself and visit the dentist more often. Not that I'm unkempt, but compared to her, I could do better. I'm in a transitioning phase with my hair, having loc'd it about five months ago. My hair is hard to loc since it is softer with an S-curl pattern, but the length is coming in nicely. I can't wait to see it after a year of growth. Also, I choose comfort over glam any day, typically lounging in casual wear, especially after coming out of a pandemic.
Finally, we reach Dr. Washington's office, and I sit on her black loveseat, which is quite comfy. She sits across from me at her desk, legs crossed, and hands folded in her lap.
"So, Ruth, how are you doing today?" she asks warmly.
"I can't complain, I'm still alive," I say with a shrug.
She laughs at my response. "Let's hope it stays that way for a while. So, what brings you in today? Where would you like to start?" she asks curiously.
Something about Dr. Washington makes me feel open. I guess that's why she's a therapist, but I keep a slight guard up, at least for the first few sessions, just to feel her out. "I'm not sure," I say, feeling a bit confused.
"Okay, what do you do for work?" she asks.
"I'm a copyeditor for a marketing agency."
Dr. Washington lights up. "That sounds like fun. Do you enjoy it?"
"Somewhat. I like writing and editing, but I prefer to do it as an author, specifically fiction novels."
She writes on a notepad. "I see. Do you have plans to transition?"
I light up at her question. "Yes, I'm currently writing a novel now while looking for an agent."
Dr. Washington writes on her notepad again. "That's good news. Tell me more about this novel."
I begin to go on and on about Dirty Dee, providing a thorough analysis of the novel.
She continues to write, listening attentively. Finally, she stops writing and looks at me. "Well, we know what makes you happy and brings passion. Tell me what doesn't."
I start to look around, feeling a little uneasy. I've never been comfortable telling others my feelings. I think it's because I never get the emotional response that makes me feel seen and heard, so I just keep it to myself. But maybe this time is different since I'm with a therapist and all. "I wouldn't say it doesn't make me happy, but it annoys the hell out of me."
She writes again on her notepad. "And what is that?"
I rub my sweaty hands against the loveseat. "Well, I've been in a relationship with a great guy for eight months. He's really sweet and considerate. We have so much fun together, but our sex is unsatisfying to me."
"What makes it unsatisfying?" she asks.
"For starters, he ejaculates quickly, like three minutes or less."
Dr. Washington becomes more curious. "Have you tried talking to him about your concerns?"
I think about her question for a second. "That would be awkward. Men typically don't take criticism well, especially when it comes to sex. It hurts their ego."
Dr. Washington writes more in her notepad. "Have you tried playing with his balls during sex? That may help."
My eyes widen. "That's a thing? I've never heard of that before."
Dr. Washington smiles. Suddenly, the timer goes off, signaling the end of our session. She stops writing abruptly. "Well, that concludes our session for the day. Would you like to schedule the same day and time in two weeks?"
I nod. "Yes."
Dr. Washington stands and directs me to the door. "It was a pleasure speaking with you today, Ruth. I look forward to our next session."
"Thank you, Dr. Washington," I say as I walk out of her office. She closes the door behind me.
Overall, it was a great session, though Dr. Washington seemed in a hurry. I'll let it pass for now. As I walk to my car, my phone rings—it's my good friend Georgia. We've been friends for nearly three years, ever since we met at my previous job as junior copyeditors. We both hated that job, but we made the best of it, which is probably why we became such good friends. I left the job last year, but our friendship has remained strong. I like Georgia; we have a good time together and bonded over our shared man troubles. I even confided in her about my issues with Darius, but now I regret it because sometimes I feel I can't fully trust her. It's the way she looks at me when some random guy flirts with me—a look of jealousy, which is odd because she gets hit on too. I brush it off for now and answer her call.
"Bitch, where you at? We need to turn up for our birthdays tonight," Georgia says excitedly.
I forgot to mention we're both Geminis, which made us even closer. Our birthdays are five days apart.
Matching her energy, I reply, "You know I had therapy this morning. I'm just leaving. What's the move?"
"Oh yeah, I forgot you were getting healed and shit. A few of us are headed to Brian's to pregame, then we're going to Dynasty Lounge. Tell me you're coming through. I know you're a relationship girlie now, but I need my twin there!" Georgia responds.
"Brian's house? I don't know. You know I can't risk seeing Craig," I say, feeling hesitant.
"Craig doesn't hang with them anymore after everything that happened last year, and besides, you got a man now, right?" Georgia brushes me off.
I think about her comment for a second and agree. "You're right! I am taken and shit."
"So promise me you'll come through?" Georgia pleads.
I surrender to her plea. "I'll meet you at Brian's house."
I end the call and head home to change. Today was going great, and I was actually excited to go out tonight.
I arrive at Brian's house on time, as always. My curly locs, still in the process of locking, hang down to my neck. I decided to wear a crop top paired with a floral kimono that flows down to my ankles, complemented by wide-legged high-waisted baggy jeans and a pair of open-toe block heels. I really am a black hippie. People often say that about me, and I usually choose to ignore them, but I'm starting to think it's true. I walk slowly to Brian's door while talking on the phone with Darius.
"I just arrived at Georgia's place," I lie to Darius. I figure it's best to leave out small details to avoid twenty more questions. Also, I'm learning that Darius can become quite jealous.
"Cool, have fun. You're coming later, right?" Darius asks.
"Of course. You know I have to end the night right with my baby," I lie again. One thing my mother taught me well is how to stroke a man's ego.
Darius sounds happy. "That's what I'm talking about. You know you can't miss this good lovin'."
I roll my eyes. "Bye Darius! Love you."
"Love you too." Darius responds.
We hang up the phone. As I walk closer to Brian's front door, I can't help but hear the noise from the different conversations inside. Suddenly, I feel uneasy. Something doesn't feel right. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. At this moment, I know I should walk away, turn around, head back to my car, and drive to Darius's house. But that doesn't happen. Instead, the door swings open, and I'm locking eyes with my ex-lover, Craig.
He smirks at me with his cocky smile. "Hey, Ruth."
Man, I can't stand this guy. This was the source of my unease. I knew when I heard all that noise that he would be here. Did Georgia set me up? This was my chance to go, walk away, and leave.
Craig nods his head, gesturing for me to come in. "You coming in?"
Although everything in my body is telling me to leave, I decide to walk right in. Damn, why does this guy have to be so damn fine and cocky all the time? I'm not talking to him though, HELL NO!
Chapter 3: Ruth
(Present)
Today at work was disrespectful. About a week ago, my job at the marketing agency required everyone to come into the office. Today is my first day back, and it reminds me why I dislike the office environment. Traffic is horrendous, the office is freezing, and my manager has easy access to me. One thing I can’t stand is a micromanager. He must be a Virgo.
The forty-five-minute drive home feels longer than usual. I check my phone for any missed calls from Darius. Nothing. It’s strange since he’s usually consistent, but I’m not in the mood for another predictable conversation anyway. Early in our relationship, I admire his consistency, but now it’s just mind-numbing.
I pull into the driveway. Darius’s car isn’t there. I start to think, but not worry, about where he might be. He doesn’t do much—either getting food, a drink, or working late. Honestly, I prefer the peace when he’s not around.
After checking the mail, I walk into our modern single-family home. We bought this place a few months ago, wanting to settle in at least six months before the wedding. We have four months to go. We plan to start our family right after the wedding. So robotic. I’m having second thoughts. Maybe if I present myself as defective, he will leave me. That's pregnancy defective. It’s worth a shot.
My phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. It’s my mother. Before Darius and I moved into the engagement phase, my mother and I were closer. Now she annoys me, always talking about the wedding. If she knew me well, she’d see that I’m not really into this wedding planning. Maybe it’s because I’m marrying Darius. One thing I know for sure, this is my last time planning a wedding. It’s expensive and honestly not worth it. I’d rather elope. That’s the romantic side of me. Darius would never indulge in that. He’s too traditional and conservative for risks like that.
I contemplate whether to answer my mother’s call. If I don’t, she will keep calling, so I press the green button.
“Hello, Mother,” I say without enthusiasm.
“Daughter,” she responds, always so formal. “Did you see my reminder about your second dress fitting appointment?”
“Yes, it’s on my calendar,” I reply, rolling my eyes.
“It would be nice if you responded. Anyway, I hope they don’t have many alterations to do, although you seem to be gaining weight in your lower area,” she says modestly.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” I walk over to the window, trying to distract myself from the continuous conversation about my weight. I’ve told my mom several times that I suffer from PCOS—polycystic ovary syndrome. It’s hard for me to lose weight in my tummy despite being active and exercising four to five times a week. My tummy area never changes. I’ve almost given up. I know I could do better with my food intake, but sweets help with my anxiety. I'll probably indulge in some oatmeal raisin cookies after conversation.
“All that working out isn’t helping, maybe you should switch it up. Or are you a beer drinker?” she asks curiously.
“No, I don’t drink beer, Mother,” I say, offended. I will admit, since being with Darius, I’ve been drinking more wine. The more I drink and pass out at night, the less I have to deal with his one-minute sex. Of course, I don’t admit that to my mother. She’s very adamant about me getting married. When I used to voice concerns about Darius, she would defend him and encourage me to stay. I thought it was me being too hard on him, but now I can’t ignore the feeling of wanting to walk away. This “he’s a good man Savannah” sentiment won’t cut it anymore. I need something different or I’ll resent him forever.
“Good, drinking beer is a nasty habit,” my mother says with disgust. “Before you get tired of talking to me—”
Too late, I think.
“Did you hear about the black man found dead in his house? I think he lived close by you and Darius,” my mother asks, concerned.
“No, I don’t watch the news. It’s depressing,” I admit.
“You young people are so out of touch. He was found stabbed to death in his home. I can’t remember his name—my memory isn’t what it used to be—but you two be careful,” she directs. “I would hate for something terrible to happen to you or Darius.”
“Thanks, Mother. I need to get dinner started. Talk to you later.” I hang up and continue staring out the window at a black Toyota Camry parked across the street. It has been there since I walked to the window. I’ve never seen that car in the neighborhood before. The windows are tinted, making it hard to see inside. Nobody has gotten out. Weird. I wonder who it could be. As I watch, the car starts and drives away. I follow it with my eyes until it’s out of sight. Curious, not scared. Maybe I should watch the news more, I think. Instead, I walk away to the kitchen and grab the oatmeal raisin cookies. Whoever it was, they are gone now. No use worrying about it unless they come back.