"I'm done," I say, allowing the words to leave my lips like sweat leaping from a lead singer's face onto their adoring fans. At first, he doesn't respond but rather sits still, a missionary trying to decide whether it is too late to convert.
"What do you mean, you're done?" He finally says with a look I cannot quite discern. He sits across from me at the table, hands curled over each other like Griphook in "Harry Potter" but somehow more menacing, as if he planned to take more from me than just a sacred sword.
"I mean, I'm done. What part of the word 'done' don't you fucking understand? D-O-N-E, done! I am so fucking one with your shit, Gordon fucking Ramsey would say I'm perfectly fucking cooked!" These words come much more quickly and rattle the table, or perhaps that is my clenched fist hitting the table below me. I stare down at my hand and lift it towards my eyes. I adjust my glasses to better make out the redness forming on the lower part of my palm and pinky finger, the red mark curling around the finger like a painted snail shell, curling in on itself as the blood pumps out to the wounded area and its name changes to escargot.
"I said I was sorry! What more do you fucking want from me? You called me here, I thought we were going to work it out." For a brief moment, I think I see regret in his green eyes. What once was the color of mint toothpaste now closer resembles Oscar complete with the garbage can in the form of a pair of silver-rimmed circular glasses.
"Sorry isn't going to cut it anymore. This was the last straw." He motions to reach across the table, finger gangly fingers with blackened tips like daikons with rotten stems.
"Don't fucking touch me," I say, backing away, trying to sink into my chair as the shirt I am wearing becomes as uncomfortable as my psyche. I attempt to adjust how it's laying before looking him back in the eyes.
"Okay, okay, sorry babe. I'm sorry."
"I'm not your babe. Sorry is over. Sorry is nothing, sorry is what you tell a dog when you step on its tail, not when you snip its nuts clean off!" I slam down on the table again, this time alerting the woman next to me of my pain when I wince and clutch my hand. I think my hand landed on a fork. The woman migrates her eyes and flaps her bingo wings away before instructing her children to do the same. A cross dangles from her neck.
"How the fuck did we even get here?" he asks, sighing as he does, an engine letting out steam that I am surprised doesn't set off the fire alarms.
"I honestly don't know."
"Can I order you a drink or anything?"
"No. I'm not thirsty. I have water," I say, gesturing to the cup of water our waiter left out for me. The ice cubes swirl around like a Spongebob driven nightmare of deciding whether or not I need it. I go to take a sip and some of the water spills out on my lap, making me look like the idiot I feel as though I am.
"Here, let me get you some napkins," he says, standing and gesturing to the waiter.
"Stop trying to take care of me!" I say in a yelled whisper while leaning into the best of my ability. "How many times do I have to tell you I don't want you anymore. You did this to me. You. I. Am. Done. I'm leaving. I gesture to the waiter for my coat and to help me leave. The cute blonde boy shuffles up behind me to pull out my chair.
"Please," pleads my now unwanted guest.
"Goodbye," I say, wheeling myself out and onto the sidewalk.
