She floated, dazed, through her workday, as if something so heavy could float. She felt like she was getting her period, though she just finished a week ago.
He was right—at least we didn’t have to make the fateful decision.
There would be no more torture.
Strange, though—we have not made love, not even close.
And yet …this pain. Loving and losing.
How sadly ironic—the love without really loving, the loss of something never possessed. She felt like a dull knife. A jackknife constantly opened and stowed. Opened, stowed, just to feel and hear the clicking—opened, stowed, quite absentmindedly. The blade unused, yet dull. Just dull and eventually returned to its pants pocket, finally silenced. Done with it. What’s the use of having a knife if it’s never used?
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