You May Tire of MeMature

Vignettes of a dying relationship.

1.

Jon worked the glass of scotch in tight, neat, counter-clockwise circles as he adjusted his black tie in the window. He had worn the tie every day for five years and often wondered if that was some sort of record. As he traced the trajectory of the falling snow outside, he saw Amanda come out of the bedroom and look at him.

“Jonathan. We need to talk.”

She was angry, he could hear it in the octave of her voice, a step higher than usual. She always called him Jonathan, even when they were having sex, and he hated it. Jon didn’t turn to face her, he just sipped his scotch, letting the small flecks of ice rattle against his teeth, not allowing them entry into his mouth. In the window he could see Amanda pouring herself a drink.

“Really? I thought we didn’t have anything left to say.”

Amanda turned to face Jon and threw her glass at him. The unprepared projectile barely missed him and crashed through the window, letting in a gust of wind that blew Jon’s tie over his shoulder. He turned.

“I would recommend getting the fuck out of my apartment. Right now.”

Jon didn’t yell often and even now, his voice barely raised, but the crispness of his words showed his anger. Amanda just stared for a moment before walking to the door, taking her purse from the coat rack and leaving.

Amanda was smoking a cigarette when Jon walked down the steps from the apartment and sat next to her. He tried to take her hand as she exhaled but she pulled away and stood, looking up at the fire escape above them for a moment.

“We are like a mix tape, Jonathan.”

He stared at her, his eyes still, waiting for her to continue.

“All this romantic bullshit, but nothing original, nothing with substance. How many times can you use someone else’s words to say how you feel before you don’t feel anything anymore?”

Jon tried to say something, but Amanda was already walking away, rifling through her purse to find her car keys. He turned around and walked back upstairs, through the ugly paisley papered hallways, and to the door of the apartment he had lived in since he was twenty. The door was covered in off white paint, chipped away to reveal the wood below.

The End

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