Word Vomit

The words lay between us like a pool of alphabet spaghetti regurgitated onto the clean white tablecloth.

I stared down at them, willing them to rearrange themselves into something less incriminating. The phantom letters didn't move.

"I didn't mean to say that," I mumbled at them. The vile orange of my indiscretion informed me unwaveringly that intentions aside, it had been said.

In my mind I flickered back to a few seconds previously, when my flustered thoughts had remained inside my head, safely ensconced where thoughts should remain. My panic mounted and my throat constricted, desperate to prevent another heave.

"I really didn't mean that," I insisted, trying to scoop back the words and wrap them safely in a napkin. Please don't hate me, I begged silently.

I thought of all the things we had together. My imagined futures came tumbling to the ground around me, the dust settling over the livid stain of my impulsivity. I screeched inside, clawing at my mind to bring the words back before they ruined everything I had worked to build.

She was speaking again. I held my breath to hear the fated words.

"Don't worry, I know you didn't," she smiled.

And miraculously the table cloth was clean again.