terça-feira, 14 de setembro de 2010

The ways she dumped were different each day. On Fridays I was her basketball, fiercely smashed into the ground, just to shoot right back into her arms. Or a boomerang she would throw as far as she could, so she always knew I would come back. On Saturdays she would ask me to sit down, look me in the eyes and say with a deep sigh that there just wasn't a future for us. That we were too different. It's not you it's me, or rather, it's not you or me, it's us. And on Sundays she cried, hungover on my bed, sobbing that she wasn't good enough for me, that I deserved someone better. And then there was the quiet day on Monday, when I took a time-out from our relationship and had a beer with my working mates and she would be at work, or at her place, wondering why I didn't call her. Then on Tuesdays things would be alright again.

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