THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE

02.03.14 . 7:15 pm

If there ever was a scene to encapsulate the past few years: I am sitting on my kitchen countertop in high heels and a push up bra. The man I used to be in love with has forgotten how I take my coffee, even though he's been making it for three years, and he puts whiskey in it from a flask in his jacket, a jacket I've mended three thousand times. He knows where I hide his ashtrays. The window is open and there are sirens outside. He doesn't sit, just fidgets and smokes. He's got a new job, I still don't. He says, 'Let's get out of here, I hate your house,' and I sigh, 'I guess I'll go put some underwear on.'

It's cold, grey. We walk to the pub, he buys me a drink, and we sit in silence for forty minutes straight.

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