"I can't do this anymore," Jo sighs, tracing the edge of the table with her
finger.
"It's been three months. I thought you got over that," Sam responds. He sips his coffee gently, and she sighs again.
"Only it's not that," she announces, pausing. "I'm not happy anymore. I don't get anything out of my life. I don't have any control. I'm leaving. Because what I do isn't all that complicated, anyone else can do it. Your new typist, whom you adore so very much, can do it for all I care. All you have to do is cart kids around in a mini-van and make shitty dinners and not put any effort in and be unhappy forever and wish you could be doing something else."
"Can't you talk to someone about this? And who said I adored my typist?" he responds, a little confused. He never knew. He never knew because he never cared about her, and she's put up with this fact for too long.
"I've been seeing a therapist since I was twelve, Sam," she exhales carefully, "and don't pull that 'who said insert valid statement here' shit with me. I'm sure you and her have a lot of fun on those long, lonely nights at the office."
He doesn't respond, so she continues, "I found an apartment in Los Angeles, by Mark's, so that I can be near someone who actually cares."
"When?" he asks.
"Last Thursday."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You didn't come home from work that night," she answers flatly. "I need to leave now, I'm sorry." I tear drips off her chin as she pushes open the door of the café and slides into her black Volvo. She hesitates for a minute, then lurches out of the parking lot behind a beige Lincoln, smearing mascara onto her cheeks.
************************
Three days later, she sits in her cubicle, waiting for something. She doesn't know what. The radio yammers softly in the background; her eyes are starting to water from staring at her computer so long. She slurps down the rest of her coffee and glares at the clock.
"What's the point?" she breathes as she stands up to get another coffee.
"It's been three months. I thought you got over that," Sam responds. He sips his coffee gently, and she sighs again.
"Only it's not that," she announces, pausing. "I'm not happy anymore. I don't get anything out of my life. I don't have any control. I'm leaving. Because what I do isn't all that complicated, anyone else can do it. Your new typist, whom you adore so very much, can do it for all I care. All you have to do is cart kids around in a mini-van and make shitty dinners and not put any effort in and be unhappy forever and wish you could be doing something else."
"Can't you talk to someone about this? And who said I adored my typist?" he responds, a little confused. He never knew. He never knew because he never cared about her, and she's put up with this fact for too long.
"I've been seeing a therapist since I was twelve, Sam," she exhales carefully, "and don't pull that 'who said insert valid statement here' shit with me. I'm sure you and her have a lot of fun on those long, lonely nights at the office."
He doesn't respond, so she continues, "I found an apartment in Los Angeles, by Mark's, so that I can be near someone who actually cares."
"When?" he asks.
"Last Thursday."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You didn't come home from work that night," she answers flatly. "I need to leave now, I'm sorry." I tear drips off her chin as she pushes open the door of the café and slides into her black Volvo. She hesitates for a minute, then lurches out of the parking lot behind a beige Lincoln, smearing mascara onto her cheeks.
************************
Three days later, she sits in her cubicle, waiting for something. She doesn't know what. The radio yammers softly in the background; her eyes are starting to water from staring at her computer so long. She slurps down the rest of her coffee and glares at the clock.
"What's the point?" she breathes as she stands up to get another coffee.
