It’s time, he said.

Time for what? she asked. What do you mean? Are you trying to say something? Just spit it out, his wife said. And be honest. Stop this guessing game. I’m always wondering what’s next.

I’m just tired of this. Everything is wrong. It’s all messed up, he told her.

Are you leaving?

Yes.

Why?

Are you happy in this?

This. This. This is nothing. Not anymore. It’s just two people living under a roof. Parked on one’s own side of the bed. Leaving the room as the other enters, she said to him. This. This is gone. Done. Right? He nodded his head. 

Yeah. We’ve beaten this thing to death. 

Right, she reached for a beer in the refrigerator. She took the last one. You wanna split it?

What?

The beer.

No. Go ahead. Too early for me.

It’s never too early. She pulled the tab on the can. Took a swig. Foam came up over the top. She slurped on it and took another drink.

This, she said. This. It hurts, she cried. Like you ripped a band-aid off. 

It’s been coming off for some time now, he said. You’ve been pulling on it, I’ve been pulling on it, just dangling there. Holding on for dear life. Gotta throw it away. Be done with it. Move on.

What’re you going to move on to? The next one? You’ll fuck that up as well, she scolded him. You’ll never be happy. And you know why I know that? Because I’ll never be happy. We’re two miserable people. We might as well be miserable together, she placed her hand on the side of his face.

No, he removed her hand. Grabbed her by the wrist. Shook his head. No, he said. Not this time. And he walked out the door.

She screamed and cried. Kept saying, This. This.  This. This is done.

The wife took off her ring and watched as his truck backed out of the driveway. She downed the rest of the beer and threw the can across the kitchen. Now that’s done, too. This. What is this?