“This is ridiculous,” she mutters out loud, but to herself, as she closes the apartment door behind her. Setting down her purse and lightweight overcoat on the hallway chair next to the console table, she bends awkwardly, the belt of her work skirt cutting into her stomach, to pick up articles of his clothing scattered down the hallway and into the living room like Hansel and Gretel’s trail of bread crumbs. When she arrives at the lump of expensive leather jacket she had given to him for his most recent birthday, she feels like crying, but refuses to give into the impulse. She abruptly sits on the arm of the sofa, one of his gaudy ties escaping from the pile back down to the floor by her left foot. Was it actually possible to fall out of love with someone for being messy? Was it even allowed?
End of Her Rope – Fragment #67