She smiled at him.
It was a warm sort of
smile, absent of the anger
and spite he had expected
and full of kindness and strength.
It was almost mocking in sincerity,
like she had just told a joke
and he had missed the punch line.
--perhaps he was the punch line--
Where he had expected her to be
cold and bitter, she remained as warm
as she had ever been.
It was the kindness that confused him
--perhaps he was craving her temper--
To give him the triumph of knowing
she still mourned the loss of their love.
But she did not give him
such a victory, hardly acknowledging
it had ever existed at all.
Had she frowned or looked startled
--perhaps a bit flustered--
it would have been best.
Had she been perturbed that
he was there at all,
he would have been satisfied.
But to smile?
It was so merciless.
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