Dropped

Then, the cave-in. One morning, in the sun, I remembered our first morning and I kissed your shoulder and moved a finger under the waistband of your pyjamas, and you told me “I can’t. I’m with someone.”

You looked me right in the eyes as if you’d been practicing; you were ready. But the worst part was that you were trying to hide your excitement, a sloppy grin suppressed out of pity, or only politeness. You were in love, and I was just a ghost of a life that happened to be stirring the curtains.

“So I guess I should move out.”
“You packed your bags three weeks ago.”
“I bought you flowers.” You just shook your head.
“So is that when it started? Three weeks ago?”
“More like three months.”
“We’ve only been in the city for four.”

“It just happened,” you said. Like you’d dropped a pen, bent to pick it up, and found yourself holding a boyfriend instead. Something not even worth mentioning.