December 16, 2015
He didn't even pack.
He'd bought her flowers at the grocery store, even though he knew she would make fun of the gesture. She wanted fancy flowers. He'd bought daisies. Because it was the thought, right? And to him, she was a daisy.
She'd been the one to surprise him, and he'd had the memory of catching them in bed together etched into his brain even deeper than her name was in his skin.
Yes, there she was.
He didn't do anything. Not like in the soaps where it was all drama all the time. He didn't yell. Didn't beat up the other man. Didn't listen to her tell him that she still loved him. He didn't even pack.
He heard her voice, a wilting flower.
He had his wallet. Fuck the clothes. He'd never want to put them on again. They would smell like her, like the laundry detergent she always used. It had never occurred to him to buy one type of laundry soap for the scent. He'd always purchased whatever happened to be on sale. Or closest to the register.
Fuck the rest. When they'd gotten together, she'd been the best thing that had ever happened to him. When they broke up, he was lower than a ditch.
He never talked to her again.
He was that kind of a man.