endings

It is the night of The Breakup. At 2:38 AM I am laying in bed with him, a sheet tucked between us to ensure no skin touches. His cat is curled up by my feet. Truth be told, I think the cat prefers me, and will be saddest when I'm gone.

I'm writing this now, but seconds ago I was playing video games and practicing blowing smoke rings with water vapor. I'm getting good at it. I don't miss smelling like an ashtray or dangling precariously out of windows for a nicotine fix. I miss my zippo though.

I'm wearing a sexy bra and trying to convince myself that it is not meant to rub it in his face. But I suppose it might be. Anyhow, it doesn't feel right to wear one of his tee shirts, and at least I'm not sleeping naked like I usually do.

The reason for this parting makes sense, I take solace in that fact. Used to be my breakups were rage-induced, hasty and almost immediately regretted. Not this time.

You see, I cannot stand liars. I cannot stand being lied to. About anything, but most especially about smallish things. And even more so when I'm forced to incrementally disassemble subterfuge in order to get one tiny piece of truth at a time.

It's crazy making, like someone sneaking into your house every night and moving a single vase from one place to another. Every morning you're wondering if just *maybe* last night you decided that it would look better on the end table than on the mantle. You actually want that to be the case. But you know it isn't.

The truth has been stuffed way in the back of my mind for several months now. I've been too pussy to confront it directly and just sort of hoping he would tell me. He did not.

So the end of the end is here, like Rorschach said it would be, but far less consequential.

This morning I was supposed to wake up early and walk over the hill to the theater to see Wolverine. Instead I slept til 2 and wondered why the fuck I should even get out of bed. I did anyway, and look where it got me.

Fuck you, Monday.