First published in PQMonthly.
He stands there in my doorway, not coming in. His hand is holding his bike up that he rode over on, also halfway through the threshold. Carl mutters something, small talk: “Hey. How did you sleep last night?”
“Like a log,” I say, and then add “A drunk, crying log.” He doesn’t react, he just looks down at his feet. “Come all the way in, will you?” I ask, now annoyed. Everything’s been going great with Carl, we’ve been dating a couple of months now, so this is about the time for something to get completely and irrevocably fucked up. I look at my watch: yup, it’s Breakup O’Clock! Continue reading