we sit on a park bench and we smoke and we talk about the weather and our cats and our shoes and who spent more money on the other’s birthday present and the truth is, when i look at you now, after all these years i want nothing more-NOTHING more-than to punch you.

is that awful. i suspect it’s probably awful. i used to love you and i’ve become exceptionally good at pretending i still love you. god. there isn’t even a child keeping me here. i think i just really love the shoes you bought me for christmas last year and you always order just perfectly for me when we go for sushi. i’d hate to have to look for that all over again.

so, park bench and cigarettes it is. it could be worse, i could have to have sex with you…