I drink coffee, cup after cup, till my teeth are stained like old linen table cloths and the Canadian bacon tastes like citric acid, strangely contrasting like cookie crumbs ground into dropped ashes.

“What I wonder is if she meant to do it on purpose,” I said. I was crossing and uncrossing my legs. My knees couldn’t get comfortable.

She was perched on a stool, delicately balanced looking down at me from that vantage.

“What does that matter?” she said.

Well it matters to me. I figure she either meant to do it to me maliciously or she did it because my feelings just didn’t matter. I just didn’t matter. Didn’t factor in.

Whether she wanted to destroy me or just didn’t care – it’s hard to say which is harder to comprehend.

“She was your lover, but she was never your partner,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “I’ve never had that. I don’t even know what that looks like.”

On my dresser is a statuette for the hanging of rope necklaces and chains – on the bottom the lovely figure of a curvy woman in a tight evening dress with a bend in the waist perfect for placing your hand and slit up to the thigh. Up top, there is no head and two wire arms for holding things.

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