There was an emotion I was repressing. That is what she told me. That is why it wouldn’t work. A repressed emotion, buried somewhere far too deep beneath the surface to be of use to anyone; least of all her.

I asked her what in the bloody hell that was supposed to mean.

She asked me to calm the fuck down and not get all, “British” on her.

I suppose she found herself very clever just then. I could see it in her eyes, the way she stood, all nonchalant with a hand on her hip and this shit-eating smirk on her face. Putting on the most amazingly convincing act I’d ever seen. But certainly not convincing enough. I’d known her too long. All her tricks were up my sleeve.

And there was an emotion she was repressing.

One not unlike fear. The fear of being content. She liked me better when she could toy around with the thought of me falling in love with her, my best friend. Now that we were together, there was nothing left to obsess over.

“You know that I know that you do not mean this.” I gave her a withering look.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Laurie. Don’t make this whole thing so much more…so much more difficult than it actually needs to be. I still love you, man, just not like that.”

I hated the tone of her voice. I hated the look of her. I wanted to scream and I wanted her to scream at me. I wanted to bash her face in. I really did. But not in a bad way. I just wanted something more. I wanted her to act like this was really fucking happening. But instead I kissed her. Softly. For a moment it seemed as if we’d both forgotten that we were in the middle of what was supposed to be a very unpleasant and upsetting breakup indeed.

“Stop it.”

She murmured this into my shoulder, a pitiful attempt at regaining whatever control and composure she had had in the beginning of the conversation. I liked this. I liked that I could still make her go weak at the knees. And so I blatantly ignored her pseudo-command and continued kissing her, first on the lips, then along her jaw, down to her collar bone.

“GET THE FUCK OFF.”

I was being pushed away and into a wall. I told her she was fucking mad. She said, “I’m quite aware of that, sugar,” and asked me to leave her apartment. I reminded her that, technically, this was my apartment. My name was on the paperwork. I was paying the fucking rent. Fuck, I’d even bought her groceries the night before.

“Fine. Whatever. I’ll leave.”

Then she did. Just like that. Without another word. She left, leaving the smell of vanilla-cinnamon perfume and seething-contempt reeking as she stormed out. I wanted to run after her, but thought better of it. Then I wanted to open the door and shout something scathing down the hall like, “Yeah, well to hell with you, bitch!” or “You give the worse fucking blowjobs, slut!” But I knew I just didn’t have it in me to be horrible to her.

And anyway, that was a lie. She gave the best head I’d ever had.

And I could taste her on my lips, so I walked into what was technically my kitchen and grabbed a beer from what was technically my fridge, washing away her residue. I had half a mind to get blinding drunk and pass out on the sofa watching porn, but it dawned on me, so blindingly clear, that we were indeed through and there was no sense in prolonging this mess.

Suddenly, I missed her so much I thought I might die.