THE ONE THAT ALWAYS LEAVES

It won’t last you know, and you’ll wish you hadn’t told so many people about it — he tells her

He doesn’t know what inspires him to approach her and deliver this unsettling information to a rather happy missus, who, for crying out loud, didn’t need his opinion. Yet he does. 
She’s seated on a stool next to him ranting to what seems like her boyfriend (his lack of attempt to dress any neater or try to impress with grander wine couldn’t have made him anything else) about her new found girlfriend who’s funny, smart, warm, easy and oh,how she gets her. 
She goes on and on with examples of times and stories that have totally won her over. ‘I have finally found my twin flame ‘, she states before her boyfriend excuses himself to use the washroom. 
He doesn’t know at what point of the monologue he figured that she was talking about her- Alexis. The reason he sits at this same stool drinking away her unforgiveness. 
He doesn’t also know what compels him to talk to the lady; a sincere empathy of her oblivion to what will happen; must happen or just so he can finally have someone to share in his miseries. The exact misery. 
‘Lovely, isn’t she? Alexis? ‘, he starts and continues before she could interrupt him. 
‘You’re going through life just the same as any other ordinary folk when she bumps into your path. Maybe a mutual friend, maybe a shared thought or maybe no connection at all. She strikes up a talk with you, she’s always the one that makes the move. Bold. Skips the a tête à tète and makes you feel like you’ve known her all your life. She doesn’t try to be nice. Goes ahead and, I assume in your case, cusses out the person she just noticed ruined your day with humor and little empathy. You skip the acquaintance stage and jump right into friendship, and for my case, romance. On glory days, which happen to be most of her days, she shines over you, turning any day into bliss. She could turn even the most self-loathing people into narcissists. It feels real. It is real. She’s as easy as a Sunday morning, down for everything like a Friday night. 
She feels like home. 
Then one day, in your comfort around her, you say something. Something you consider mundane, something you didn’t think would have upset her like that. She gets mad. You say sorry. She says it’s okay. 
Still, her days get busier. She cancels every plan. Says it’s not because of that thing. Crowds drown her sometimes and once in awhile, she needs alone time to recharge. Her ‘recharge’ takes weeks and by the time you ask about it, it’s busy season at work. 
You’d have to be a whole lot of stupid to not see that she’s distancing at this point. You try everything. 
But she’s gone. Over something petty, she’s gone. And suddenly a thick cloud covers the sun she once was. 
Because you’re human, you’ll say something too, something small and mundane and she’ll take her sun away. She always does.’
With this, he drowns down the bottle, gets off the stool and stumbles out of the pub not taking a last look at the lady. 
Maybe she’ll start taking caution or maybe they’ll meet again, here, to share in their misery.

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