Quitting: A Timeline

Then:
We waited for a table. It was warm in there. The bar was full of people talking about their days, their plans. We said nothing. I sat on a barstool, you stood close. My fingers wrapped around your belt, pulling you a millimeter closer to me than you already were. You were nervous, but looked at me straight and steady. Trust, that confident snake, wedged itself into the crack in my heart. We ordered red wine. You kissed me. We ate arugula salads with sliced pears.

Subsequently:
Every time you drove away, leaving me wrapped in covers, writhing, the crack widened. Eventually, after so much leaving, it spread to my whole chest and brain and imploded me. A person can only take so much leaving, you know.

Now:
I've quit you. I've never quit anything before, besides piano lessons when I was nine. Never thought I'd feel so good about quitting something. The snake is back in its hole, waiting for permission.

Prediction:
It's going to be a long wait.