Breakup Vengeance

There you are. Sitting at the yellow-topped table made for two, but this time it’s only you - reading the printed copy of the daily news your paperboy so kindly flails at your door. Your lips appear chapped, bitten, broken. Dried blood crusted between each split. I even spy with my little eye the dandruff that always haunted your ego. I wish you’d have listened to me about your God-awful orange shag carpet. Even from the kitchen, it reeks of old people.

But there you are. The same chest hairs peeking through a neutral v. The patchy stubble that caressed my cheek more often than your hand. With the untouched blackheads on your nose and the slight sweat rim on your hairline, I can tell you feel a tinge of regret for how things went down, but I’m not stupid. I know you’ll move past that quickly.

I steadily watch as you go to the fridge and grab the freshly sliced pears you recently purchased at the farmers market just like any other Saturday. I want to ask you, David, do you remember the time we went picking for pears at the farm down Brandywood Lane? I wore the chartreuse and cream gingham dress and you had on your gray wool button-down sweater. I giggled at your constant complaints of the heat and burgeoning frustration at the pear trees. That’s what did it, wasn’t it? My constant enjoyment at your discomfort. Something about watching you battle with your first-world problems while others died of hunger - kind of funny, right?

At least Mila will bring you some peace of mind. I know you were always worried about her golden tabby fur leaving remnants of cat everywhere in your quaint apartment, but she will serve you well - keep you company while I’m gone. One moment I watch her toggle a toy mouse between her paws, the next she goes brushing her tail along your collection of evening wine. First the Pinots, to the Zinfandels, over to the Cabernets, and finally to your Moscatos. I can see the clear furrow of your brows as you stare at her clumsy yet keen movements. If anything, you should thank her for dusting your untouched conglomeration of bottles from over the years. As you approach the counter, you confirm how well I know you. For your finger will dance on the cork of the Cabernet from the winery in Chamonix and then jump back to the Pinot from Peru, and finally lift the Moscato we once drank together under the twinkling outdoor lights on our hiking trip to Montana.

You hardly know the ways my fingers choose wine, David. I’m more of a tequila gal if you’d care to ask. There are far too many things you don’t know after dating for three years. For one thing, it’s a shame you think I’m dead. Your vents are quite dust-ridden layered in cobwebs with an occasional stink bug creeping up my calf. I laugh at it now. How funny it is that you actually thought me gone as I grimace with bloodshot eyes in your air ducts. At first, you had it your way. I sank to the bottom of the river, David. However, you are awfully pitiful at knots. Your abusive father was right. Boy Scouts would have done you some good. Since you didn’t sell stale popcorn or learn how to start a fire with flint, here I am with the sensation of yet another stink bug crawling up my leg between the blue denim of the jeans you loved. You know, the ones you said made my ass look less like jello and more like a peach.

Maybe you meant like the peach Moscato you now sip: spicy, floral, and feminine, lush, full, and lethal. So sip away as I watch. If only I weren’t so good at reading you, and if only you weren’t so predictable. Cheers, David, to our life together in hell.