She hears him say (And she's not sure if it's in or out of her own mind) this is the last time but would it make things better if I claimed I loved you?

She wants to say, Yes everything will be alright just say those words or write them or sing them or let them be your last it will just be okay, but she can't because that last lie was, well, her last.

But she thinks: It's normal for things to end like this if I think about... Because after days of persuasion she'll know it's normal. Yeah. And it feels like the first time they promised, its standard it should come around like this: Full circle and hollowed out and as empty as the beginning.

He says: (She knows it's real this time) I don't think it would, so I won't bother. Okay? And he tries to place a soft kiss on her mouth but it just comes out all wrong- his lips are cracked and taste of the sea and the cheap beer she remembers they drank together on Thursday is still lingering. It's all rough and pathetic and almost insincere. She feels a horrible urge to shove him away- If only it were that easy to get him out of her life, she thinks.

She suddenly has an idea: That kiss summed every fucking thing up. From when her nails made scratches in the window sill, to when she felt that crystal meth high and her throat was so dry but it felt so good and she couldn't see from everything.

The view out the window is frighteningly clear and the trees dance on the wind. She thinks, their dance is more romantic than any dance I'll ever see.

She feels stupid and maybe she was right in the first place (that it was meaningful) but she didn't want to be let down so she just spun out and crashed into his life and he thought it was sweet in a whore kind of way. A sigh.

The neighbours speak of love and war and babies born and old men buried and she can hear their chatter and it's so faint but it brings her back and suddenly he doesn't exist. On the flickering TV, David Letterman cracks a stupid joke and she wants to swear at him for being so happy when all she wants to do is live somewhere exotic and not in the city where no will know her, and she won't be whispered about.

She looks outside and a middle aged woman catches her eye. They lock eyes for only a moment, but immediately she feels completely and totally exposed and she is all bare bones and blood red lipstick and bite marks on necks. She knows, she knows for sure that everyone in the entire city knows that a piece of her is missing and every second she is falling apart, and they know why.

She hates this vulnerable feeling, and it makes her restless: She wants to scream, and her heart begins to pound as if even it is disgusted by her, and it wants to burst from her chest and say you’re such a fuck up, I’m ashamed.

And outside, below, as a child runs after his shockingly red balloon, she slowly begins to cry.

---

I wanted to give you a taste of what I am used to writing- this is as long as it usually gets. If you didn't get it, don't worry, you're meant to use your imagination and think of something that you think fits. I've made it as flexible as something like this could be. I'll give you the picture, and you give me the story, non?