Day 9: Write a break-up scene.
Hello.
I mean, like hello? Is he even listening? The glazed look in his eyes tells me he isn’t though his head bobs up and down to the beat of a song only he can hear. And still I talk. Or yell. Hurtful words laced with anger and regret. Resentment. Bitterness coats my tongue as I skid to a halt mid-sentence. “Hello?”
“What?”
“What? What?”
“Is this a game?”
“Why, are you having fun?” Because I am not. At all.
Glaring and eye narrowing commence, an epic battle of wills with no real winner. Who could ever win a fight such as this? Who would want to? This needs to stop; the fighting, the constant bickering. I’d rather swallow broken glass than have this tired conversation. Again and again we hurl insults, demeaning each other to avoid the truth. The truth. As if we know the meaning of the word. We’d lost sight of it – and ourselves so long ago I’ve completely forgotten what it looked like. Sounded like. Right now our truth sounds like hate. And I hate it. Him. I hate him with a passion I could barely contain and I don’t even want to try. Not anymore. He obviously doesn’t either. Sitting there in pressed slacks, collar starched stiff. Perfect hair and perfect teeth all so perfectly put together. It makes me sick. It always has. Now I want to vomit all over his shiny black shoes if only to see the look of shocked horror on his face. Oh how lovely that would be. A frame-worthy photo for sure. Poster size. Adorning my bedroom wall. As a dartboard.
His angled head and steepled fingers drive me mad and signal he’s done with this conversation. With me. With us. Whatever. It’s over, over, over. I just want it to be over.
He stands, smoothing the front of his pants and adjusting his cuffs. “Goodbye.”
Good riddance.