“Where were you last night?”
“Where was I? What are you, my mom?”
“No. But I am your girlfriend. And if you want to keep it that way, you should one, keep dates, and two, let me know at least thirty minutes into the date when I’m sitting there all alone looking so stupid waiting for you to show that you’re going to miss said fucking date.”
“Look, babe. I don’t have time for this right now, okay?”
“Don’t have time? Don’t have time? You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
“Babe…”
“This is the third time this week you have done this to me. The seventh time this month. I thought we talked about this. I thought you listened.”
“I did!”
“Really? What did I tell you to change?”
“…something about keeping the time…?”
“That’s it.”
“Babe.”
“No. I’m done. This is ridiculous. Why did I even start going out with you?”
“Anna, wait—
“No. Fuck you. Fuck your stupid missed dates. It’s over, Greg. Over. Goodbye.”
Click.
And it was done. Just like that.
I’ve never felt worse.