My cat knew exactly what he was doing pushing the flower vase off the counter at 3AM.
It shattered in the living room, where the whole house could hear the death of my night.
My date, the bloodthirsty girl with similarly cat-like disdain for rules, was no longer lying beside me. She was sighing in the dark, fetching her clothes.
I am not as nocturnal as she, so I cut myself on one of the broken pieces.
The pain brought me back to the day we met.
We were comfortably uncomfortable in the back of my first car, a sedan with not much room to give, where she slid too far down and stomped on my glasses.
I was never able to see how bad she was for me.
But my cat did.
I only wish it was sooner.
It would have saved me a vase and the thirty honks I received while holding up traffic, calling over street vendors to purchase $5 flowers in the middle of LeJeune.
The lights flickered on in every room.
I hurried her to my car and kissed her softly before slamming the door on her ass.
She didn’t fight back, for once.
That’s how I knew it was over.
I promised myself that the next time I’d see her, it would be in the daylight.
That day never came.
Neither did I.