“I have to be here because my wife freaking would rather die than go anywhere else?” I push Florida.
She pushes me out of the apartment, tells me, “go. Don’t need your fucking ass here anyway.”
“What about my stuff?”
“It’ll be outside. Love ya, Bye!”
The door locks, but I have my keys. Can I have my phone? I whisper. But I don’t go in because I really don’t want to see the scorn on her face, the hurt, and betrayal. If she opens the door, I will see that I have lost every little bit of respect she ever had for me. Can I love someone who wants to abuse themselves in a city built to make life hurt? Antihuman, I screamed at one point. And it’s true, New York fucking sucks. It’s a walking city with piss-filled water-bottles exploding in the summertime. Dog-owners who let their dogs shit and piss anywhere they please. Hear of curbing? Know what it is? Care to Google? Old people, who smell like piss and abilitied with clairvoyance to be precisely where you are heading, like a sudden sand bar to progress, on the sidewalk. How, for the love of God, how? Every fucking donut comes from an East River warehouse. The rats. The heroin addicts. Who the fuck does heroin! It got heated, and it was probably for the best that she screamed back, “it’s penis envy,” and threw cold coffee at me.
Dripping still, that one act ended the whole thing.
“I’m fucking going, I yell through the door.
And Obviously I am free to do so. Thankfully, I see the hall-light go out in the peephole instead of another confrontation.
Fuck it.
I turn and decide on a long walk instead of forcing one, knowing Florida would have been to good for us anyway.
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