He’d always hated it when she swore.



Every time she described a 9-5 shift as shitty, he would exhale slowly from whatever brand of cigarette was enjoyable at the time and stare at her like she’d just scribbled it on a portrait of Christ.



It wasn’t because he never swore himself. In fact, every emotion he had made itself known by some unflattering adjective. No, he hated it coming from her because she was supposed to be the good one; the semblance of innocence he curled up beside because there was no longer room for it among his unrequited attractions and cemented family feuds. For her, life’s bitter remnants were experiences that only made her more interesting, and often reflected on them with a sense of peace and satisfaction which he craved, ravished, and scapegoated it time and time again. When she swore, that transparent quality was replaced with the same calculated cynicism that already inhabited so much about him.



But as he collected the pieces of his torn apology note, he realized he’d taken much more then he could ever give back. His need had drained her, made her hollow. She’d lusted for him, cursed him, wept incessantly those few nights without him. He spit into the decorative shrubbery and gazed at the expanse of empty driveway before him. It could have all been give……….but there had already been so much take