I don’t care that it is Valentine’s Day. I am going to break up with her.
Back when I had confessed, I was so happy that she accepted my feeling. Though, as a British author once said, “Marriage is the tomb of love,” I supposed being too close to someone could kill the romance. There is a lot of difference between liking someone from afar and watching them pick hairs off their crotch, first thing in the morning.
Sometimes, I have a nightmare about that.
Then last night, she showed up and insisted on a sleepover just because my parents were away. She hogged my blanket for a whole night. It was snowing outside, and I thought I would die of hypothermia.
Finally, morning arrived.
“I am too tired for school,” she moaned. “Tama, cast me magic that would wake me up. You know what I mean.”
I did it with her, not liking it. Not at first, anyway.
Maybe it’s my fault, too, for always letting her do what she wants with me, then hating myself later. Now I understand why wives had gone revolutionary and turned feminist back in the day.
The sound of her leaving the bathroom came.
I was getting breakfast ready when her arms wrapped me from behind. “Did you clean up?” I said, stirring the pot. “Please leave nothing behind, and I mean nothing.”
She put a necklace around my neck.
It was the heart-shaped necklace I had seen once in an accessories shop. Its color and size were exactly what I liked.
“Happy Valentine’s,” she said. “Sorry for always being selfish. I love you.”
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