The Last Fuck With My Ex

It Was Good While It Lasted

What the hell did I do to deserve this?

Seriously, I’m trying to figure out if it was a curse from some old witch or just accumulated karma for stepping on an ant when I was five.

There I was, living through the last days of what I thought was a perfectly normal relationship. “Normal” in the sense that we already knew where everything was in each other’s houses and we no longer cared about those morning farts that you try to disguise with forced coughing. That phase where we stopped being actors on the seduction stage to just be… ourselves.

The week started like any other — with him telling me he had “matters to handle” and me pretending I believed it.

“I have some paperwork to take care of. I’m leaving early today,” he said, as if I’d swallow that bullshit.

“Oh really? What kind of paperwork requires you to leave at 3 PM on a Wednesday? The bank closes at 3:30, are you James Bond needing to disarm a bomb in a vault?”

“Are you always this suspicious? Fuck’s sake, it’s just work.”

I swallowed hard. I didn’t want to be the paranoid girlfriend, that caricature figure that appears in every romantic comedy. So I agreed, as always.

It was Tuesday when he called me after hours.

“I’m in the area. Want to go for a ride?”