white aprons and grease stains

She left you. This much is clear. She is gone. Is she gone for good, as in another city? Or is she gone from your circle but still around, waiting tables somewhere else and trying to forget you at Communion every other Sunday?

Still here, then. I suppose you should be careful where you go. The last thing you want is to meet your friends for drinks on a Saturday night and have her walk past the bar, hair pulled back and makeup perfect, smelling like the last time her head was on your pillow. No, that is the last thing. Avoid it.

She left because you would not commit. Of course I can sympathize. You never have. You never could. You’re somewhere else.

What’s that? You’re sad? Of course you’re sad. I’m sad, too. Really fucking sad.

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