I can’t remember the date I decided to end him, but I remember the time. 

It was past the Break-up and speeding towards the Crack-up. I think it was a Saturday. Just past one in the morning. 

My emotional corpse was two-thirds of the way into a fifth of Jameson and fully committed to a path of liquid denial. And I was happy. Happy that Ben’s last words to me were finally starting to slur after two weeks of enunciated pain.

“You’re just… you’re too much, Liz. I’m out.”

The only thing worse than the pulled punch of It’s not you, it’s me is the haymaker called Oh, it’s absofuckinglutely you. Shit like that will knock you to the mat and rattle your teeth. I remember hearing my dignity screaming from the corner to get up. Get up and fight goddamnit! 

But I didn’t. My eyes were already swelling shut by the time my heart pounded out a ten count and declared him the winner. TKO.

Truth kills. Ouch. 

That’s how I ended up outside his duplex, 1:45am, gun in my pocket, full of whiskey and too-muchness and calling for a rematch. Little did he know this was going to be a two round fight. Bang bang!

At least he did me the courtesy of looking surprised.


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