"I'm sorry." she pleaded at me, when realistically I knew that absolutely nothing she said could fix what she had done. Simply because, she'd done nothing. It wasn't her fault that I'd fallen over as I got out of bed today. Nor was it her fault that when I went to the café they didn't have my favourite muffin and they only had sweetener as opposed to real sugar for my coffee. I would even go as far as to say that it wasn't her fault that I was currently having an existential crisis based on the fact that I'd fallen totally out of love with her and wanted to end our relationship immediately; as quite frankly, I was growing tired.
I should probably explain that last bit. You see, her and I had been together for quite a while now. We knew everything about one another. We knew each-other's schedules, favourite foods, she knew what cigarette brand I was slowly (and passive aggressively) killing myself with and realistically to this day I could probably tell you the brand of toothpaste that she used, if I tried hard enough to recall that is.
I suppose I was living the good life with her, yet I suppose that's what made it not good for me. You see, I've never been a fan of routine. I could never get into the idea of myself being stuck in a day to day life where I knew how absolutely everything was going to go down. Sure, a lot of people take comfort in that kind of stability. I personally find nothing quite as abhorrent as feeling like absolutely everything is planned outright for me due to circumstances that I've allowed myself to fall into. I craved spontaneity, I yearned for my life to have flavour, I desired to live each day as if it was something completely and abruptly new to me and quite frankly I wasn't feeling any of those things whilst we were together.
But how was I to say it? I mean, I've been hurt more times than the average human's big toe against furniture. Could I really allow myself to be the one to hurt another? Well yes actually, I could. Because, and to be frank, I'd never met a person as furiously mundane as her. So as I sat there counting the tiles on her kitchen floor (30 black, 27 white. Kind of an odd ratio really.) I couldn't help but feel a damning sense of relief as she got angry at me and screamed for me to leave.
For I made what I wanted into being her idea, and for once she excited me.