Ivan was stuck. A constant loop. A constant play back of what had happened nearly two weeks ago, the day playing over and over and over again. He wasn't counting, but he would've lost track anyway.
Wake up at six, on the dot. Daily ritual. Nothing out of the ordinary. Glance around the room, get an idea on what's going on, nothing out of place. His walls lined with shelved that held his prized dolls, the dolls of his country. Fresh sunflowers on his nightstand. Today is Saturday. Stay in bed, stretch out a little bit. Feel good before getting up, maybe roll over and go back to sleep. But no. Not this day.
Get up, put your robe on. The single disadvantage to sleeping in the nude: not everyone does it, so when you do it, all the neighbors might freak out. Robe, slippers: Check. Tie the robe extra tight in case it's windy. Head downstairs, go outside, and get the paper. Head back inside to get the coffee started and make something for breakfast. Something not very traditional: Pancakes. Easy to do, tasty. It works.
Make lot's. Five or six. Otherwise your stomach won't keep quiet. The jam and syrup are necessary, butter too, but you ran out and forgot to get more. Maybe you could call Francis...
FRANCIS.
You forgot. He was meant to come over today. Noon? Sometime around there. You can't remember. You just decide to leave him a text. He'll read it when he wakes up. It'd take a train to wake him up if not on his own. "On your way over, would you mind picking me up some butter please? Also what time were you coming over again?"
Now the waiting game. It's always some time before he re-
Ching
A reply already? Hmmm... "I'm on my way over now." Hmm... that's odd... considering he's even awake at this hour. He either woke up early or didn't sleep. Poor thing. "Can't wait." you reply. That's all the answer he needs. And his 20 minute journey should allow you enough time for a shower and getting dressed. Better hop to.
You spend forever in the shower. You can't help it. The feeling of the warm water trickling down your limbs combined with the threat of the harsh cold outside are enough reason to make you over stay. You get out to a doorbell ringing. Damn, he you must've spent more time than you though. You hurry into your boxers and a shirt, grabbing some deodorant on your way out. 'At least it's something.' you figure, and rush to answer the door.
You see Francis Bonnefoy: Your boyfriend and committed lover of the past year and a half. "Hallo." He says as you invite him in, making his French origin obvious. "Come, we must talk." You stare, confused at the statement. "A- Alright." You close the door and follow him down the hall to the kitchen, each of you sitting at opposite ends of the table.
"Ivan... You know I love you, correct?" Francis asks somewhat sheepishly. You stare at him somewhat awkwardly. "Of course, as I love you. Why must you ask?" You reply. Your heart starts going fast. This is it. This is the day you've been dreading. Past relationships have already taught you to be careful with your heart, and this was a risk. Now you get to face the consequences. Eyes widening, heart racing, you wait for it. The words that end it. There's never an exact number, though. But they always mean the same thing.
"I've been thinking.. for a while now..." Francis begins, but your mind instantly starts racing. "Oh god, oh god, oh god..." It's finally here. "We don't really work together."