It was that damned bowling league.  It made me hurt.            

Enough of the television.  Give it a rest.  Damn, but I hurt.  You’d think I was gone already.            

And this morning she walked past half asleep and she reached out just to rub my arm lightly and I was already turning away so it was only one light touch.            

Her hand was so warm.            

I never used to be turning away when she moved to me, when she talked to me.  But now it’s all the time.  Just like with any other person, just there, that’s all.            

I should’ve been better.  I should’ve been happy.  I had enough for us to live on, why’d I have to insist all the time?            

Time I made those phone calls.            

Why couldn’t I have been nicer on that bowling league?  Not gotten so uptight?  Not made her so –            

Damn!  What kind of place advertises an apartment for rent then puts the answering machine on?            

Better make me some supper.  A sandwich. 

Nothing to drink.  Have to have chocolate milk.  I’ll get yelled at for using so much Quik.  Too bad!  You’d think she owned all the damned groceries, the way she carries on!            

She was the one who said she wanted to break up – three years ago.  But maybe she wouldn’t have said it if I’d been better to her, and . . .

and the tomato’s sliding out of the sandwich.            

The fan’s on.  Hate fans.  More than I hate heat.            

She said it sooner than that, though.  Eight months after we started.  And sooner.  Two months after. 

I remember.  “I . . . just don’t . . . feel it . . . anymore” – all hesitant and self-conscious.            

Why the hell has she been doing that to me all this time?  And if she wants to leave, why the hell doesn’t she?            

Let’s see what’s on TV.