petite anglaise

I was barely through the front door, coat still buttoned, when Lover spoke.

I sat, shoulders hunched, head in hands, on the edge of my bed – in the very spot where Mr Frog listened to similar words back in May last year.

There was nothing further to say, so I asked him to leave. I couldn’t bring myself to look at his face, but heard him crying.

I am a rudderless boat turning in dizzy, uncomprehending circles on a sea of noisy tears.

He doesn’t want me any more.