The ice cream had melted into a soup-like consistency; it was the result of her distraction when she decided, instead, to focus her attention on the window. The night had begun a symphony: cracks of lightning conducted the droplets of rain and trumpeting claps of thunder. It was a sound more depressing than Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata (which surprised her quite a bit; she didn't think anything could produce such emotion more than that instrumental).

Diana Hastings had not experienced this deflated feeling before now -- before the past few days. She never thought she'd be the type of woman sitting cross-legged on a chair and indulging herself with ice cream. When she had decided to partake in the overrated mope-while-eating-sweets ordeal, she found that she didn't even own any ice cream and had to run to the market to pick some up.

It was all a futile attempt, she realized, when she ran her spoon through the soupy mess. Not only did she still feel miserable, but she was doing it all wrong. When one would like to mope, they should be wearing a bathrobe and eating the ice cream out of its container. One should not have even bothered to get dressed or scoop the ice cream neatly into a bowl.

She wasn't sure whether it was the fact that she was bad at moping or if it was the realization that Arthur Lawrence was not going to ask for her back that kept her in this miserable state.

Diana sighed heavily, placing the bowl onto the table and resting her chin in her palms. Was she truly wrong in asking for him to stop the drugs, to remain clean for more than a week? She felt justified to do so; it wasn't like she wanted to change who he was, just the bad habit he had become madly addicted to. It was not out of pride for herself, but out of love for him.

Staring absently at the bowl, she listened to the rain as it turned into an angry cacophony. He clearly didn't care for her one bit if he put forth no effort in quitting. If he had loved her, Diana thought, he wouldn't have screamed with such anger when she dumped the bag of cocaine down the toilet.

If he loved her, he'd have called or sat at the threshold of her door, vowing to quit even if it meant serious rehab.

But he didn’t do any of that, she thought as she stood up and threw the bowl in the sink. “He doesn’t love me.”