Feeding the Pattern

"I can't do this. I can't do this," she wailed as she shook the grocery bag. "I can't keep on like this knowing you're leaving. " We stood in the street on our way home from the market. The rain fell heavy and the clouds swelled closer to the dark earth.
"If you believe that, say it again and I'll walk away if that makes this whole thing easier. You'll never hear from me again."
Then the bag broke. The eggs cracked. The wine shattered. The milk found the gutter. Some other shit rattled around, too.
"No, No!" she screamed glancing quickly at the mess, then back at me. "That's not what I want!" Won't you fight for me?"
"No. I can't; I don't have the strength right now. But each day I'm with you, you build me up. And I think I do, or did, the same for you. But you're right. Maybe we can't make believe anymore. Look at it." I motioned to the broken, cracked-up mess we made. Her eyes fixed on the mess, and her head cocked slightly to her right shoulder. She smiled peacefully.
"What?" I asked her.
"Funny," she said almost whispering, still gazing upon the mess, now converging into one stream quietly flowing in the gutter to the drain. "How it comes to this. How such a mistake comes to make sense. It's all feeding the pattern."