She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, glancing at the clock on the dresser. As she moved around the room, gathering up her things and stuffing them in her bag, she thought only of something to drink, something cold to soothe her sore throat. As she pulled her sweater over her head, she could sense that he was watching her. "So, you're still going to leave?"
"There isn't any other choice, so I suppose so."
He watched her go into the bathroom, and close the door.
Looking in the mirror, she saw a tired, ugly little girl. How could he ever think she was beautiful? Why did he always tell her that, even when she looked like this in the morning? He always knew the right thing to say, even if it was wrong. She took her brush and pulled it through her hair, staring at the soon-to-develop blemish on her forehead, directly between her eyes. She could just make out the remnants of her tears of the night before, streaking down her cheeks. She turned the water on and waited for it to get warm. Taking a clean wash cloth from under the sink, she washed her face slowly, the faint traces of makeup coming off and leaving the cloth stained.
He wondered if he should get up and make her some coffee, but decided she would think he was stalling her again. He stared at the ceiling and thought about all the things she said to him just a few short hours before; why did he always have to be defending himself, when all he wanted was to make her happy? Maybe he should've been less accommidating to her and tried to make her see she always had to make herself the issue. She was really good at that: everything was always about her, never the two of them together. In fact, never in the entire time they had been together had she even spoken about "us", in any sense. It was always her, and how things were affecting her.
She couldn't even begin thinking about what makeup to put on, so she just grabbed anything that was close and went back into the bedroom, shoving it in her bag on top of everything else she could cram in. She made sure not to even look in his direction, knowing it would be hard to leave the room if she met his gaze again. She was a sucker for those eyes, she thought, and she didn't want to make it any harder than it was already. She sat at the foot of the bed and pulled her jeans on, feeling as though she had gained 10 pounds since she took them off last night.
Finally, he got out of bed and walked into the kitchen. He filled the coffee pot with water, and listened to her gather up her things. "Uh, I'd rather you leave your key."
"How am I gonna get the rest of my stuff?"
"You can call and come over with someone, or I can bring it to you." She cocked her head to her left, pursing her lips, but not saying anything as she took the key off her already well-filled keyring and laying it down on the counter.
"I'm not gonna take it to the Salvation Army Store. Everything that's here will still be here when you want it."
She knew that he was telling the truth, he wouldn't act that childish. "I'll call next week"
And with that, she stomped across the room to the front door, and was gone before he could even answer.
Three hours and two pots of coffee later, he sat in his chair, listening to blues CD's, wondering where he was going from here. It gave him no solace to think about how much less complicated his life would probably be without her mood swings, and disregard for his feelings towards her. He went through all the stages of grief, in quick succession: sorrow, anger, resentment, denial, and even a bit of happiness thrown in. He decided that a walk might help him clear his thoughts, to get out of the apartment for a bit. He threw on some clothes, and grabbed his cigarettes from the table, which were next to the key she laid there. He knew it was going to be strange to come back, and she wouldn't be here when he did.