By sarah wilson
I don’t love you. I never did. I was in love with the idea of being in love. I was in love with my idea of what you could be. You didn’t live up to it. How could you?
Your hair needs cutting. It didn’t matter until today. Nothing mattered because you were with me and we were a couple and that’s what we’re all supposed to want. Isn’t it? Your hair needs cutting and today it irritates me because you irritate me and I don’t love you. You brought me tea in bed but even after seven years you still forget I take sugar because you don’t. I take sugar and your hair is flopping over your forehead like a poor imitation of Hugh Grant. I don’t love Hugh Grant either, so why do you insist on buying me every fucking film he makes. Most of them are still in the cellophane.
Your boxers are too tight. You’ve put on weight. Your bum cheeks are straining to escape from the puce coloured cotton. Here we go, always the same with your trousers; right leg then three hops then left leg. I used to think it was funny. Now I want to scream, “Sit on the fucking bed and you won’t fall over, you won’t have to hop!” God, you’re irritating.
Don’t kiss me goodbye. I don’t love you. Go to work and con your bosses that you’re worth the obscene amount of money they pay you. I won’t be here when you get back. I hope it will be a shock when you find the note. In fact, I might hide it so you don’t find it for a while and call and call and wonder why I don’t reply. Yes, I might hide it because I don’t love you, you irritate me and I am leaving.
I don’t love you. You didn’t live up to your promise. And if you hadn’t left your fucking laptop open for me to read your emails I would never have known. I hope she gives you something that requires antibiotics.
Don’t bother trying to get me back. I don’t love you. How could I?