“Wait. What? Are you…dumping me?” I gasp in disbelief, as I lean back against the cupboard to steady myself.

“I guess so,” he mutters, his shifty eyes sliding away.

“I guess so? What the hell does that mean? Are you, or aren’t you?” I demand incredulously.

His sullen face swings back to me. His fists are clenched by his sides as though he’s forcing himself to sit there and not bolt out of the front door. “All right, yes. Yes, I am.”

“That’s it? It’s over between us,” I say in wonder, just in case there is any doubt. It’s always good to be completely clear about these things. When someone says all right yes. It’s kind of a grudging agreement. It could mean no too.

He rolls his eyes. I hate when he does that. It makes him look like a dork. “That would be a safe assumption to make,” he says, with a little snigger. He’s loving this. This position of power. He told me that he’s never been the one doing the dumping before. Every woman he’s been with was smart enough to leave him first.   

I shake my head as my brain tries to make sense of the thoughts flying through my head.

James and I have been together for two years. In fact, only two months ago he told me he was so grateful he had found me. We were perfectly matched and there would never be anyone else for him. However, our anniversary last week was kind of a mess. I somehow, convinced myself he was going to propose. Well, what would you think if you saw a bridal magazine stuffed under his pillow in his apartment?

When he didn’t pop the question, and came up with the lame suggestion we get chicken take-out and just hang out at my apartment for the evening, I was pretty gutted. But I’m not one to give up at the drop of a hat and I decided to somehow salvage the night. I slipped into some expensive lingerie and swayed towards the bed in what he used to call my sexy walk, but he turned out the lights and fucked me for five minutes. It could have been longer, but it felt like less.

Not exactly the romantic night of my dreams. I had half a mind to flip on my vibrator and masturbate right there in front of him, but he started snoring next to me. Since I wasn’t turned on anyway, there seemed to be no real point.

I stare at him now. “But it’s New Year’s Eve tomorrow.”

He has the grace to look shamefaced.

“Why?” I whisper.

“Does it matter?” he snaps, flying upright and crossing his arms. Like a child who has been naughty and doesn’t want to be told off. I’m so used to dealing with his tantrums and moods that I automatically reach out to comfort him, to make it all better even though he’s a grown-ass man, and I’m the injured party here.

He evades my touch as if it is a branch of poison ivy and moves out of reach. My hand falls back heavily against my thigh. The slapping sound reverberates inside my skull. Wow! He can’t even bear my touch. Okkkkkay. I take a deep breath and measure out my words slowly, clearly. “Yes, it does matter. I’d really like to know.”

He snorts. “What difference does it make?”

I swallow the pure rage stuck in my throat. This asshole thinks he can walk in here and break up with me after he’s wasted two whole years of my time, and not even give me a reason. I don’t know what gave him that impression because I’m absolutely determined to find out why. Heck, I’ll sit on his spineless back and squeeze it out of him if I have to. I straighten away from the cupboard. “Since it makes no difference to you, and as you don’t have anything to lose,” I point out through gritted teeth, “perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me what the fuck is going on here.”

He turns back to me slowly, looking me dead in the eye, a nasty expression in his eyes.

Suddenly, I know what this is about. When he arrived early this evening, I think I already knew what was coming my way. Especially, when he sat on the edge of the couch without taking his shoes or coat off. He had no intention of hanging around too long. He wanted to get in and out. Some confident part of me wishes that I could back out of hearing him say it. I would love to airily walk him to the front door, while telling him to keep his pathetic reasons and fuck off out of my life, I’m just not interested to know.

But I can’t do that.

I’m someone who needs to know. I need closure. If I don’t get it out of him now I’ll be calling him in a month or six months and asking him why then. So I’ll be damned if I don’t get him to spit it now. I square my shoulders. I’m a big girl. I can take it. Besides, I refuse to give him the satisfaction of thinking he crushed me like a bug under his shoe. After two years that’s not how I’m going to let this end. Me splattered under his clumsy big left foot. Actually, for a man with such big feet he has a very small dick.    

“You really want to know?” There’s that ugly look again.

I nod.

He tosses his hands in the air in exasperation. “Just remember you wanted to go down this road.”

“Just, spit it out, James,” I growl.

“I met someone else, all right.”