I gazed at the far wall above the fireplace where I’d hung an abstract painting I found at the Goodwill, and on each side, two wooden toy guitars. I know I wasn’t the first person to procrastinate a break up because of all the work it would take. All the dividing, he gets one toy guitar, I get one toy guitar.
In the end, he would get the abstract painting. He would even get my mountain bike for fuck’s sake and yes I’m still bitter about that. I would get the curtain rods and the fancy curtains we bought down at an overpriced bohemian home decor store that I can’t even remember the name of now and he would get all the good wine glasses, of course. I would get most of the art and knick knacks and he would get the cat because it was his mother’s to begin with. I would leave him with the furniture because there was no way I was going to keep going back into that apartment. The guilt. The holes in the walls that we both made.
Two weeks later I had a new boyfriend and a new neighborhood, and oh, I got to keep all our friends. I was having sex again, and enjoying it.
I remember the night I’d pranced around in a brand new purple silk nighty from Victoria’s Secret. I was so horny I would’ve humped the couch but I had less inhibition back then so I didn’t. I’d dropped hints like bombs around the living room before he told me he wasn’t attracted to me anymore. He’d told me “you didn’t have that mustache when we met”.