text: It first started as a whisper in my ear, a devil on my shoulder promising a better future, a guilty pleasure daydream I adopted in the absence of chocolate before bed, and then before I knew it, I woke up one morning and had an inkling of an idea of life without you. No more sandy feet on my dashboard, no more morning breath, no more losing my keys and not helping me find them. I had an idea of a life free of your bad habits, and I slowly started to hate them. I hated the way you left the ice cream spoon on the counter instead of putting it in the sink, I hated the way you always sneezed three times in a row, I hated how I couldn’t get a cat because you were afraid it’d eat your fish, whose tank leaked at the top and smelled of rancid sea stink. I grew to hate all of these things I promised you were not deal breakers at the beginning of our relationship, your hair in my clean laundry, your hair in the shower drain, your hair in my mouth and on my pillow and in my hair brush that I asked you not use a million times. And so, I grew to hate all of you. I grew to hate us, our relationship, the life we had built together, so I wanted to leave you. I tried, but it was Christmas, and then it was your birthday, then Valentine’s day, then your dad died, then Fourth of July. There was never a good time to end it, so my hatred grew into pure resentment, a hot white flash that scarred our life. I could tell you could sense it, your smile grew sadder, you found every excuse to wear the dress I deemed my favorite, you changed your hair, your diet, your taste in music. I know that your efforts should have made me love you more, or forgive the small things that irked me so much that I couldn’t stand the thought of dealing with them for the rest of my life, but it made me want to leave you more. Neither of us deserved the other, and so to ease the guilt I felt for falling out of love with you, I turned to her. She, everything you were not, was my savior the last few months of our relationship. Instead of taking my anger and desperation out on you, I fucked her. Instead of yelling at you while you were grieving your father, your dead fish, the stain on the couch, I brought her on dates and bought her expensive jewelry. I brought her coffee in the morning and held her hand in between sales calls while ignoring your good morning text messages. I kissed her in the rain and came home and left the wet clothes for you to wash. I gave her flowers and came home late the night you cooked my favorite dinner, left cold on the table while I stared blankly and you screamed and threw the couch pillows. “Why are you with me if you hate me so much?” You asked me many times, and always, I told you I didn’t hate you, even though I did. Even though I had moments where I would sit and think about how exactly I would finally leave you and your colorful dresses and your dull brown eyes behind, I would tell you I didn’t hate you. Then, the company dinner. Every year my office brought the employees and their families out to dinner at the fanciest restaurant on Main Street. You, wanting to make a good impression on the coworkers that knew I was cheating on you, wore a long red dress. You did your makeup, you wore your hair down, you had on the earrings I gave you our first Christmas together. You looked beautiful, but that was not enough to stop me from thinking about how annoying it was that you took thirty minutes trying to find shoes that matched, how much I hated having to drive extra careful so that you could finish your mascara in the car, the looks we got as we strolled in five minutes late because you didn’t want to spend the five dollars for valet parking and we had to walk from the parking garage to the restaurant, blocks away. We saw her, the woman who was taking your place, and her date for the night, a husband she wanted to leave, a husband who she said didn’t know her as well as I did, and you suggested we sit next to them. After drinks were served but before our orders were taken, they got into a whispered argument, quiet but obvious, and he stormed out. By the time we had ordered and our food had arrived, she was on my arm. By the time were ordering our dessert, she was whispering in my ear and laughing, and I didn’t care anymore, I breathed on her neck softly and toyed with the hint of my hand being close to hers, and you finally understood the lock on my phone, the late nights, the perfume on my collar. In a moment of weakness, you looked at us and your eyes were screaming. Your wine glass to your thinly stretched lips, your eyes were begging me to stop. I slid my hand up her thigh and you inhaled sharply, conversation around us slowing to whispers and big eyed glances as you stood, clutching your glass. You let out a breath I felt you had been holding for weeks, and you cocked your arm back, and threw the wine glass above our heads. Everyone silent, no hint of silverware clinking, no sound of conversation, only the light jazz playing through the uptop speakers, you excused yourself to the restroom, and by the time the staff had cleaned up your mess, and the surrounding tables had continued their meals no longer entertained by our drama, you returned. You asked if we could take a walk, I told you I’d be out in a minute. Three, five, ten minutes passed, and you came back inside. You asked if we could go home, and I told you to wait just another minute. Playing drinking games with my coworkers, a captivating woman begging for my whole attention, I left you to sit outside by yourself. As the kitchen closed and the bar did last call, my coworkers slowly gathered their families and left. She asked me to spend the night and I called her a taxi, explaining that you were outside expecting me. Pouting, she kissed me in full view of you, and I saw your knees shake as I kissed her back, helping her step into the taxi. The walk to the car was silent, and cold. I offered you my jacket and you refused with a shake of your head, your hair so meticulous hours earlier, now falling in your face, sweaty and disgusting. Your freckles, I once adored, looked like dirt on your ankles and your nose, and you sniffled every few seconds, and I hated you. I felt no remorse or regret, only relief at the thought of no longer having to lie to you. At the light before the street where we would turn to our car, you stopped. My hands in my pockets, I turned to you. “Let’s go, it’s late and I’m tired.” You looked at me, and I could see mascara running down your cheeks, I could see your nose was red and snot was running, I could see your chapped lips, and I hated you. I hated you so much, that when you asked me if I was going to leave you, I smiled, and turned around, and walked away.