I squirted on his fine leather chair

unmoored unbecoming

4h

I squirted on his fine leather chair 

his plush blankets. the immaculate wood floor. 

out of nowhere. 

dripping. 

everywhere. 

ferociously. triumphant.  

rushed to his glass shower, under the wide selection of shower heads. 

curious. 

what just happened? thats never happened before. now? after a full life of years? fascinating 

I wrote the AI inquiry in my head while adjusting the stainless steel handle from the pre-positioned, conservative, resource-saving medium warm to full-blast scalding heat. 

“is squirting a real thing or is it urine” too mortifying and boring to followup

i’m enjoying the shower. I will enjoy this! I committed.

languidly, I realized.   mentally adding, "deliberately", with mounting conviction, letting the steaming flow meet me where I defiantly soaked.  smiling. 

he likes simple women. thats what it is.  he prefers fun. ease. (compliance?) 

is there something wrong with that? 

not complicated like me. not intense. 

fine. 

its best. 

i’m not meant for relationships anymore anyway. thats past. 

in fact, i'm wet now, where will I sit. I'm using his bathrobe. tough shit. he deserves this. selfish. look at all of these shirts. his 40 pairs of duplicate pants.  5 pairs of cowboy boots. 20 pairs of black sneakers. his 5 navy blue tufted outdoor vests.  

but she *is a nurse. 

that’s not simple. thats accomplished and smart. 

last night I guessed it. his texts today confirmed it.  Filipino! 

I can’t be that! 

yes today he sent the pictures. this morning.  

immediately after that singular, bone crushing text.  

"No, very sorry". 

really? that’s it? 

the brutality of it. 

the rapid fire successive blows. 

the strangeness of it. the timing. after a full month of silence. 

and I was right.   

I study the photos. her hair. her arms. her legs. are we different? the same? her short black hair. my long. 

1 picture of her.

1 of him.

taking turns documenting their journey.

each other.

happily enjoying life.

there she was. 

smiling.  

under the Portuguese stop sign.

her toothy smile and sunglasses while pointing to "complaining" below the commanding red sign.   

next picture of him holding his walking sticks.  tanned skin and white hair. 

why. 

that was. that has been the question.  

why. 

but here I am.  and I am enjoying. and accepting the gift. 

of being here with the basket of white hand towels neatly folded in symmetrical stacks below the wooden white sign with the large loopy script, “LOVE”, without him.  

I accept.