She sat at the table and stared at the last sugar cube in her left hand as if it were a memory, sweet as laughter and light as a joke. The grains crumbled off the sharp corners and bounced across the blank page in front of her. She began writing.
You threw me into the wall and chided me for wanting the door. You knocked the air from me and resented each lungful of oxygen I struggled for. You saw each bruise you left and demanded to know why I couldn't see the heart shape of it. Pressed against the wall as I was, with your fist in my gut, and your teeth at my neck, I acquiesced. Of course I did. Later, when I got a chance to breathe, I filled my lungs and packed my bags. But I waited. You said okay and I waited. Before the sun reached its summit, you reached back and let me have it. I scrambled for the door and shut that fucker tight behind me. Now you, innocent and lonely, want to know why.
She set down her pen, dropped what remained of the cube into her cup and stirred. The coffee was cold and tasteless. Picking up the paper, the pen and the cup, she walked across the room, threw everything in the trash, and closed the door behind her.
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