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[personal profile] hurricanelaura
Yesterday morning I woke up like I normally do, groggily trudging down the stairs to make my morning omelette and oatmeal. As I finished assembling my breakfast, I sat down at the dining room table and noticed that there was a pile of boxes next to me. Just glancing at the top box, I could see my copies of Michael Symon's “Five Ingredients” and Aaron Sanchez's “Mole” peeking out of the not-very-closed flap.

John, while I was working and/or visiting the local coffeehouses in the spirit of avoidance had been packing my shit for me.

Uh-uh. No.

I calmly waited until he was out of the shower and settled into his usual nook on the couch (I swear, there should be a permanent imprint of his ass on that cushion. Thank god it isn't memory foam.). I walked over to him, careful to keep my temper in check.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi!” he said, smiling.

“Don't do that.” I blurted out, pointing to the pile of boxes. I mean, Jesus, how was I supposed to find anything?

“Do what?” he asked, seeming confused, but coming from the man with the master Poker Face I couldn't tell whether or not he was acting.

I cleared things up and told him – clearer and more politely this time – to stop packing my shit. I added that he was going to have to be patient.

“I have been,” he responded. “But it's been over a month now. This has gone on long enough. We both have to get on with our lives.”

I stood there just staring at him in disbelief. I had no words. Did he seriously think that I could just magically pack up 6 years worth of shit and be gone in three weeks? Because that's how long it had been. Three weeks.

“You know,” I started, trying hard not to lose it. “this may come as a shock to you, but this isn't exactly easy for me.”

“I know that.” he acknowledged.

“YOU were the one who wanted this, not me!” I felt my voice grow louder and start to crack with the threat of tears.

“I know that too.” He nodded again.


Instead, I knew I had to maintain a modicum of cool if I didn't want to see this escalate into an all out War of The Roses shitshow of insults and destroyed property.

“Well don't you worry.” I mockingly assured, eyes narrowed in contempt, my vexation bleeding through my voice in spite of my vow for civility. “I'll be out of your life as fast as I can.”

“Okay,” he nodded and agreed as if I had told him I was going to the grocery store.

Douchebag. Fuck him.

After an hour round on my punching bag followed by some well deserved (I thought) chocolate, my brain came down enough for me to think. I know I didn't deserve this treatment. What had I done, after all? Nothing, that's what. It was his idea to buy this house, his idea for us to live together and merge all of our stuff together like Ozzy and fucking Harriett. Hell, it was him who had to practically drag me kicking and screaming out of the adorable, cheap little apartment I loved where I happily (and stubbornly) enjoyed my independence a good two years into our relationship.

But I also know that if I start sinking to his level and getting nasty, this will go downhill to places I really didn't need it to go at this point in time. For my sake, and possibly his.

When he came home and again took his place on the couch, this time eating a bowl of the wretched canned soup he had been eating in lieu of my home cooking, I approached him again.

“I'm sorry for getting angry before.” I apologized, although I knew I had every right to be angry.

“It's okay,” he accepted. “I was only trying to help.”

Textbook John. Too passive to admit to me that he was trying to send me a glaring signal to get the hell out of his house, he takes the innocent tone of “trying to help”. To keep things civil I played along.

“I know.” I responded. “But you know this isn't easy for me.”

“I know that,” He acknowledged.

You just don't care, I thought. I climbed the stairs back up to my room. Our former room. This is where I've been hiding, doing my best to avoid him and keep him out of my sight. I could barely bring myself to look at him these days.

But I also didn't really didn't have time to mope, as I had to get myself up to Taco Tuesday at Barrio with my good friend Tam.

Tam's friend Stephanie joined us this evening, and she was nice enough. We had far too many chips, tacos and tequilla as Tam decided that we needed to make up a really bad nickname for John. The last time I had done that I was about 10 years younger and the name sounded more like a spasm of Tourette's. But it had at the very least made me feel better, and so did Tam's enthusiastic contempt for the man who had hurt her friend.

Maybe I'm luckier than I thought. After all, I have at least one very loyal friend.

Afterwards, because my friend's chocolate shop was only a block away we decided that it was imperative that we stop for a visit and grab some handmade marshmallows and toffee-filled goodness. As I was hoping, Paul was working, painstakingly pouring brownie batter as we walked in.

It was good to see him, and as he asked me how I'm doing Tam wasted no time telling him her opinion of John, which I could tell made him squirm a little. He's uncomfortable with the kind of situation I'm in and even made the subtle point of reminding me that he became friends with us both at the same time.

Either Tam didn't notice his discomfort or didn't care, because she continued to go on in detail about how hard she wanted to punch John in the face and exactly how many times.

Seriously one of the best friends I've ever had.

We paid for and collected our chocolates and eventually left, concluding the night with tentative plans to join their friend at the shooting range. Never having fired a gun in my life but having been friends with a bounty hunter, I was naturally curious but also a little timid. With random shootings happening almost every week lately, my logic told me that the best way to not get shot was to avoid places with guns.

When I got home I crawled into bed and fell asleep binge-watching old episodes of Sex In The City. I must say, Sam is my hero.


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August 2016

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