Dichotymous Detachment

That summer was too hot to even think about moving, nevermind do it. Just the two of them. With a U-haul. But it was only her moving. He’d tossed and turned through that thought the entire night; wondering why she hadn’t wanted him to stay. “It’s me, the cats and the flip-and-fuck now that all my shit’s moved… not exactly comfortable,” she brushed him off like crumbs.

She kept checking the back of her GTI. Made sure it was closed. It was. The cats secure – no one was making a run for it. Yet she kept checking.

“I should go. You didn’t have to come by,” she muttered, “I’ll see you in a few weeks,” she lied.

“You know I love you, right?” he reached for her as she turned.

“Mmmm-hmmmm,” she lied, “I gotta go,” she avoided his kiss, awkward corner kissing him while unlocking her door, “I’ll call you when I get there.”

He stood in the city street, crumbling. Her car vanishing, leaving him with nothing but guilt and regret. She watched him in the rearview, her smile growing with each inch toward freedom.

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