There’s a problem, he said. A disconnect, lit up a cigarette. You don’t see things the way I see them. We don’t communicate, he poured a cup of coffee and offered her a cup. She shook her head, no. You always like a morning cup, he said. There I go again. Trying to second guess you. I never know what’s on your mind. Never know what you’re thinking. You think this is it? he asked.

I don’t know. It’s always something, isn’t it. We have this way of going for weeks without a word between us. Just roommates splitting the rent, she said. Sharing utilities. We don’t even sleep in the same bed. We just exist, she said.

You want to end this? Have it done; finished. She nodded her head.

Neither cried. They did not reach out to one another. He just started packing; not knowing where he was going. The middle-aged man put books in boxes. Kerouac, Dostoyevsky, Joyce, Mailer, Miller, Bukowski, Fante, Melville, Camus, all packed neatly in cardboard. All those masculine writers. She always said he didn’t understand women.

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