The end.

A missed morning phone call. An afternoon of wondering. Late night, poorly planned, alphanumeric tapping.
She writes: “Why did you call me?”
He writes: “To see how you are doing.”
She writes: “And why in the world do you care? You wanted your freedom from me and you got it. Run. I’m not holding on.”
He writes: “How are you doing?”
She fumes.

She writes: “You have absolutely no right to know: you forfeited that two weeks ago. Stop acting, unless it’s to do me the same courtesy I did you and exit yourself from my life. I don’t know you anymore, and you don’t know me.”
He writes: “Then how are the cats?”

She waits. She writes “You must be retarded.” She erases it lest he think she’s being cute. She stews. She decides that maybe he should know. Maybe he should care.

An hour later she writes: “What precisely do you want to know? That the cats loathe you? That I range from being excellent to forlorn and fucking weeping from hour to hour? Is it that you want to survey the damage you’ve wrought? Does it delight you? Does it remind you how to feel? What? You’ve got it now–all the news there is. Now, let me get on with a life that does not include you.”

He waits. He writes the only two words that would have alleviated anything had they arrived two weeks earlier.

“I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t reply. She knows there’s nothing left to say.

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