I woke up the next morning, same as always, though the bed was colder and the coffee tasted stronger. The world had not crumbled, the sun had not burned out, and the cows still stood in the field, chewing their cud with that same slow indifference. If anything had changed, it was only in the details—like how one less coffee cup sat on the table, and how I didn’t have to listen to her sigh about how miserable she was before she left for work.

I suppose I should have felt something deeper, something more poetic. Regret, maybe. Rage, if I were a more excitable man. But all I felt was the air in my lungs and the solid ground beneath my shoes. I reckon she thought she was being clever. She always did.

Maybe she thought I wouldn't survive without her.

Well. The thing about that is—men have survived worse.

I burned the first three eggs, sure. But by the fourth, I had it figured. I washed my own shirts, and wouldn’t you know, they came out just fine. And as for talking to people, I found out real quick that a man doesn’t need to say much if he’s got good work to do and an honest way about him.

She left for a man with a flattery problem. A man who told her she was too good for the life she had, too special for dirt roads and homemade bread. That’s fine. That’s real fine.

Because I’ve got land beneath my feet and work in my hands. I’ve got a sun that rises just the same as it always has, warming my face without asking me if I still love it.

And when the days stretch out long, and the evenings come easy, I sit on my balcony with a cup of coffee. And I smile, just a little, because I know something she don’t.

I will survive. And better yet—I will enjoy it.

And it starts, sometime around midnight.
Or at least that’s when you lose yourself for a minute or two. As you stand, under the bar lights. And the band plays some song about forgetting yourself for a while. And the piano’s this melancholy soundtrack to her smile. And that white dress she’s wearing. You haven’t seen her for a while. But you know, that she’s watching.

She’s laughing, she’s turning. She’s holding her tonic like a cross.  The room’s suddenly spinning. She walks up and asks how you are. So you can smell her perfume. You can see her lying naked in your arms.

And so there’s a change, in your emotions. And all these memories come rushing like feral waves to your mind.
Of the curl of your bodies, like two perfect circles entwined. And you feel hopeless and homeless and lost in the haze of the wine.

Then she leaves, with someone you don’t know. But she makes sure you saw her. She looks right at you and bolts. As she walks out the door, your blood boiling your stomach in ropes. Oh and when your friends say, “What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Then you walk, under the streetlights. And you’re too drunk to notice, that everyone is staring at you. You just don’t care what you look like, the world is falling around you.

You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.

You know that she’ll break you in two