he was sitting on the couch with the two small black pillows on either end and the blanket he folded around the top. when she said i'm leaving you don't listen anymore, he was looking at the table.
on the table there was a ring from a yuengling bottle, one of those moisture rings but without the wet. he was looking at it, not because he wanted to clean it or because he was mad that it was there, but just to look. she said i'm leaving, did you fucking hear me? and but while he was looking he said to her no no baby please you didn't understand, cmere an sit with me a little hey, hey, shh but all he meant was if i could pull the bones from your body i could build a scraper and it would clean this right off, i know it. she already had a large bag packed full of things like underwear and soap and shampoo and tampons and a toothbrush and nonlatex condoms, she was ready or to put it better, she was prepared. he wondered if you could lick it off, and regretted it. he said hey, hey, she moved for the door.
she thought about that couch and the things on it. she thought of history, like the sort you find in texts. she thought about all the things she could forget. and how there’s a sort of surrender that happens that gets confusing when nobody sets any terms. he scratches at the ring.
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