“Romance,” she says.” Don’t you believe in romance?”
“What do you mean, romance?”
“If you have to ask, you don’t know what romance means.”
“There you go again, contemplating life’s mysteries instead
of enjoying the moment.”
“You have no soul. No depth. You never enjoy the finer things in life.
Like the time we went to the off Broadway play Oleanna.
You did not enjoy it.”
“I did, but then the curtain went up and the actors spoke.”
“Everything is funny to you. Nothing is serious.”
“This is serious work for me. Your expectations of me are so low
if I don’t get you mad at least once a day, I’m afraid you’ll consider me a failure.”
“What kind of man reads that slob Bukowski instead of Hemingway?
“The last I heard, Hemingway’s brains were still splattered all over the wall.
and the last time I was with a good woman was the best two days of my life
It’s all in the past
Do you want me to lie to you?
Do you want to believe there is purity to our relationship?”
“No. I am leaving.
When I close the door, it will be the last time you see me.”
The slamming of the door had finality to it
like the curtain dropping after a good play
that had too long a run
The last act while disturbingly familiar leaves me in:
silence
peace
solitude
everything has changed
but all remains the same
I pour myself a beer.