I THINK MY PHONE HAS AN S.T.I.

Okay, time to give myself a shake. I can lament getting dumped, commiserating with a growing soundtrack of songs. It’s funny how many pop ditties are relatable. When I’m not feeling wounded, it’s the song’s hook that draws me in. Now I’m drawn to lyrics about getting the hook. I suppose the corresponding visual is exit stage left in these Tinder times, but I still envision a sudden chute opening up at the person’s feet, sending them down into some deep, dark hole, relegating the sad-sack to bumming a morsel of pizza crust off a sewer rat. 

 

Hours after sitting through my closure call with my ex and hearing Taylor Swift in my head, summing up his point of view—"We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together”—I downloaded a “dating” app. I think it’s actually more for hookups but the guys on this one seem to still keep it a tad higher brow. Perhaps it’s a formality but they complete the “I am open to” box with Friendship, Relationships, Dates before adding Random play/NSA. (NSA=No Strings Attached=hookup.) 

 

To be honest, I’m not open to any options right now. I’m here for Woofs and Likes. After getting dumped, I need to know that someone might pause on my photo, read a sentence or two of my profile and think, Yeah, he’s okay. Not worth a message or anything but, I’m here and woofs are free. That’s right, I’m craving virtual barks from humans. 

 

The world gets weirder.

 

In the days that followed, I reactivated my profiles on Plenty of Fish—a pond that’s more depressing than ever—and OkCupid, a site that Vancouver men seem to have abandoned. Cupid’s apparently been playing with poison arrows. 

 

And then I crossed over into the present century, diving into the very shallow pool that is Grindr. No risk of neck injuries from my head hitting the bottom, just a range of STIs.

 

Good lord. (I don’t say things like, “Good lord,” but I’m thinking I’m going to need something akin to divine intervention to help me cope. I’m experiencing shortness of breath just typing on the topic. Seriously!) 

 

I think the name of the app is supposed to allude to sexual friction, bodies grinding together but my first image was me getting chucked into a large meat grinder, shredded down to nothing, a variation on that woodcutter scene in Fargo. Not kidding. That’s where my head went. This app is going to grind me down.

 

Lordy lord.

 

Unlike the other apps, I paid some sort of fee. This is my virtual beer. When I used to go to gay bars, my survival instinct always said, FLEE! To combat this, I’d order a beer. I hate beer. I couldn’t gulp it down like a rum and Coke or a Tom Collins, well drinks that were always mostly ice. Being raised with a sense of frugality, I knew I would finish the beer. It would take forty-five minutes, tiny disgusting sip after tiny disgusting sip, but that meant I’d have shown up and stayed in a gay bar for practically an hour. 

 

Sometimes I could kid myself into staying a bit longer. Never much of a drinker, I’d wonder if I might have a buzz and whether, should a police officer pull me over, I’d blow above 0.08. (I’m 6’1” so highly unlikely.) I’d add to the STAY incentive, speculating the DJ would play a Janet Jackson or Madonna song next or, if not then, right after that. 

 

Paying for three months of Grindr means I’ll check in a time or two. Get my money’s worth. No woofs, but taps instead which manifest as a flame symbol. (I’m not sure how a flame translates to a “tap,” but I’m guessing no one else is bothered by this illogical visual.) Tap away, guys. I really need a boost. I’m paying for affirmation. 

 

Grindr scares me. Most of the messages I’ve received are mind numbingly lite, a mere three letters—hey or sup. Are some users billed by the letter? Jeez. How does an overly wordy guy like me navigate three little letters? I really, REALLY don’t belong here. But hey is safe, at least. Not scary. I just delete it or, once or twice, I’ve hey’d back. It’s a dare. Message me again. More letters, please. 

 

People don’t like dares.

 

It’s the other possibilities I’m afraid of. Something urgent, direct, crass. No mention of coffee. No talk about a favorite hike, no question about what I write. I’d share some examples but I don’t have any. I delete these messages right away, as if my device might succumb to a virtual STI. I really don’t want to have to take my phone in for repairs. How would the tech dude react if I set it on that counter and say, “I think it might have gonorrhea”? 

 

“Sorry, man. You’re screwed. No antibiotics for that.”

 

So I’m paying for flame emojis and the screams are, what, a bonus? I have a low threshold for horror. I’ve never seen a Halloween movie or anything with Freddy Krueger. (Had to Google the character so as to not confuse him with that Flintstone guy.) What I’d be more than willing to pay for is a blocking mechanism. No faceless profiles, no profile that includes the word “daddy,” and no unsolicited homemade videos. Call me retro, but I’d prefer floppy disks to dicks. Sorry. Grindr made me say that or, more specifically, aspiring videographers with an inflated sense of, er, pride. 

 

Damn you, Grindr. As the gays have flocked to you, the staid sites gather dust, mould and an archive of profiles from guys who haven’t figured out how to download a photo from the present century. (Seriously! Same photos for active users on Plenty of Fish from when I first logged in somewhere around 2006.) I’m tempted to contact a lawyer to bring monopoly/antitrust charges against Grindr. 

 

“What damages would you allege?” Thomas Buckingham Lowden III, Esq. would ask.

 

“My phone has gonorrhea! And I’m going to be single forevermore!”

 

“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure we can prove in a court of law that the last part is on account of a dating app.”

 

I hate lawyers. (I can say that. Used to be one.) No validation from the legal system.

 

*Logs in* 

 

No new flame emojis either. Someone just show me the trap door shute. I’ll go willingly. Sewer rats aren’t nearly as scary as certain cellphone icons.

 

MUSIC THERAPY

I’ve been listening to music more than usual since the breakup. Once upon a time, the TV or stereo always seemed to be on, but I haven’t had a television since my as-yet-to-be-wall-mounted flatscreen flopped and smashed on the floor after an apparent wind gust from the balcony and music hasn’t been the same since I could play an album or CD on the stereo. (How much did the last part of the preceding sentence date me?) 

 

Somewhere along my life’s journey, perhaps linked to my first stint in a psych ward, I came to love the quiet. It calms me. It keeps me focused on writing, reading and thoughts that swirl during the in-betweens. Creative ideas, little snippets that may come off as random, provide personal entertainment.

 

I’m not in the mood for quiet right now. Swirly thoughts aren’t so entertaining. I need noise. I have to distract the mind.

 

Welcome back, steady music stream. It’s not just distraction. The songs I play offer a slow release of the confusion, the hurt and the WTF that still simmers under the surface. After other failed relationships, I’d been in the mood for strong, proud diva songs that mask a lost love’s sting with bravado, the basic message: Stupid man, you made a huge mistake but you’ll never have a shot with me again. Annotated playlist:

·      “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” – Taylor Swift

·      “Someday” – Mariah Carey

·      “I Will Survive” – Gloria Gaynor (of course!)

·      “My Lovin’ (You’re Never Gonna Get It)” – En Vogue

·      “Irreplaceable” – Beyoncé

·      “So What” – Pink

 

Good stuff. Better than scream therapy or walking into a glassworks studio with a baseball bat. (Less expensive, at the very least.)

 

But that’s not where I’m at. I don’t feel hate or bitterness. That might make things easier. (Ariana Grande even has a brand new song exactly on point!) Given how lousy the circumstances of the breakup were, I should have no problem concocting some animosity to put whatever we had through a shredder, but I’m not there. Any anger that does seep in arises from the sense he rejected me in the end by diminishing how much I invested and how much I supported. He gave up on us.

 

Cue the first song on heavy rotation on my Breakup Soundtrack (2024): “Don’t Give Up On Us” by David Soul (RIP). Sorry, David. I can sing it, but the dude ain’t listening. He already did. Still, the song helps. David’s voice is so gentle. The song has that classic ’70s air of hope and happiness. How could his lover say no?

 

It’s a nice little dream, a recurring one. And I don’t have an in-person therapist Googling song blockers. My condo walls are thick enough that my neighbors haven’t knocked on the door, saying, “Please stop. Play that Rebecca Black “Friday” song or even “Macarena,” but no more Starsky. Or Hutch…Whichever.” (He was Kenneth Hutch, FYI.) 

 

Okay, I can get more real. Given up on. Whatcha gonna play now, Mr. DJ?

 

For several consecutive nights, I went to sleep with “You abandoned me, Love Don’t Live Here Anymore” playing in my head. Rose Royce version, though Madonna’s remake is almost as good. Never even had to stream the tune. I’d awaken, not to songbirds or seagulls or even the clunking trains on the tracks a hundred feet from my loft, but to Sheena Easton’s “You Could Have Been with Me.” New day, same state of mind. 

 

The practicalities of being “Alone Again (Naturally)” get acknowledged in Michael Johnson’s “Bluer than Blue” (“After you go, I can catch up on my reading. After you go, I’ll have a lot more room in my closet.”) and a throwaway line of Hall & Oates’ “She’s Gone” (“one less toothbrush hanging in the stand”). The songs remind me I’m not special. This happens to other people, too. Even if it was my ex who fixated on closet space.

 

The standouts on my present playlist include: Natalie Cole’s “Someone that I Used to Love,” a song that relentlessly sabotages any normal brain activity multiple times every single day (“Wish it was enough for you, All the love I had to give”); Dido’s “White Flag” as a point of pride, knowing that I’d given everything and hadn’t shied away from the possibility (and reality) of further rejection and humiliation, “going down with the ship” by conveying I still wanted to find our way back to us; and Calum Scott’s “You Are the Reason” which seems to spin in place, just like me, deemed irrelevant yet still wanting more.

 

Other songs in my discards pile:

·      “Dancing on My Own” – Robyn or Calum Scott; why not mix it up a little?

·      “Say Something” – A Great Big World and Christina Aguilera (crushing…)

·      “Knowing Me, Knowing You” – ABBA(!)

·      “(Our Love) Don’t Throw It All Away” – Andy Gibb

·      “After the Love Has Gone” – Earth, Wind & Fire, a song from my early teens which I loved but, when it came on the radio a couple of weeks ago, I realized, damn, it’s a breakup song

·      “Evergreen” – Omar Apollo

·      “Someone You Loved” – Lewis Capaldi

·      “Manhattan” – Sara Bareilles (always, always, always)

·      “Walk on By” – Dionne Warwick

·      “You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine” – Lou Rawls (okay, more than a tad diva-ish)

·      “It’s Too Late” – Carole King (a freakin’ classic, now nudging me too hard)

·      “She’s Out of My Life” – Michael Jackson, if only for the voice-cracking ending, but I’m able to move on; what did MJ ever know about love?

·      “No More I Love You's” – Annie Lennox, adding a welcome Annie quirk

·      “Rocket 2 U” – The Jets (not a breakup song but it was already on my jogging playlist and it playfully dismisses some of my ex’s reasoning for the breakup; teen-beat therapy)

 

That’s an abridged list. I needn’t reveal how extensive the list is. I do love pop music. And therein lies a silver lining. I’m not wallowing all day. This post just makes it seem that way. The thing about listening to songs on YouTube—which my ex found maddening—is I control and constantly change the playlist, sometimes clicking on a suggestion, often letting my own ideas intercede. I can follow my umpteenth listen of “Someone that I Used to Love” with Natalie Cole’s exuberant “This Will Be,” lyrically no longer relatable but oh so bop-worthy. I still play Whitney Houston’s version of “I’m Every Woman,” typically when I shave which continues to amuse me. And, weirdly, I’m giving Percy Faith’s “Theme from A Summer Place” repeated listens. My therapy doesn’t have to be embedded in sanity.  

 

For humor in a breakup, I always rely on Dionne Warwick’s “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again.” Thank you, Hal David, for lyrics to help me smile through humiliation:

What do you get when you fall in love?

A guy with a pin to burst your bubble.

That’s what you get for all your trouble;

I’ll never fall in love again.

 

What do you get when you kiss a guy?

You get enough germs to catch pneumonia.

After you do, he’ll never phone you;

I’ll never fall in love again.

 

What do you get when you fall in love?

You only get lies and pain and sorrow,

So for at least until tomorrow,

I’ll never fall in love again.

 

Bless you, Hal David! (And RIP to you as well.)

 

The first tears finally came on Day 26. I’d stumbled upon a suggested song by exes Katy Perry and John Mayer and my mind went to Mayer’s “Dreaming with a Broken Heart,” a song I loved for a while—objectively pretty and sad but nothing I’d personally connected with during a prolonged period of singlehood. As the song played, the lyrics opened with, “When you’re dreaming with a broken heart, the waking up is the hardest part.” That was it. I knew exactly what he was talking about. Eyes watered, cheeks caught the overflow. Suddenly, survival became acute. Not about getting through a breakup; just let me make it through the song. 

 

I did, thanks in part to a lyrical tangent about roses. I could connect but it would take a bit of work and, hell, I wouldn’t go there. Close the floodgates. Disaster averted.

 

The closest I’ve gotten to a music-enhanced release and a glimpse I will move on is the song “Flowers” by Miley Cyrus. I’ve been doing the Miley, buying myself flowers. It’s a bit of a hollow gesture. He wasn’t the flower buyer, I was. I loved showing up at his place each time with something fresh-cut; not roses but some stems that had an architectural quality to them or fit his color scheme. I was buying my own gerberas pre-relationship and throughout our two years. I’ll continue to do so. Not quite redemptive when it’s the status quo. I suppose I could dance around my condo in my underwear like Miley does in the video but that would only underscore how I’m not at all like Miley, after all. Grab a shirt. STAT!

 

For now, my song list still feels fresh. I’m a long ways from Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” but then I never want to return to that delusional reincarnation of “If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands.” As The Beatles say, it’s a long and winding road. I ride on, two hands on the wheel for now, trying to glimpse a little less in the rear-view mirror. Radio on, of course.

 

ORDINARY WORLD

Calendar says March 6. I don’t have anything marked on my iCalendar app. It wasn’t like I was going to forget the significance of the date. Now, I only wish I could.

 

Two years together. Happy Anniversary!

 

But we didn’t quite make it. We flamed out three weeks beforehand. I’d bought the card. I knew how else I’d mark the occasion, with him in Denver and me in Vancouver. A special day, but it didn’t seem essential we’d be physically together on the actual day. Such is the nature of long-distance relationships. I always knew there’d be more. 

 

Scratch all that. I’m the fool. I fully believed we were on solid ground. We’d worked through our differences as they came up. This was the one relationship where I didn’t hold on to things said and done in past conflicts. I seemed to blank on them immediately after the fact because the particulars didn’t matter. We’d gotten through. I felt secure enough to stay in the present. 

 

When enough time passes, I’ll be able to finally look back. When people ask how long it lasted, I’ll unequivocally say, “Two years.” The three-week deficiency won’t matter. Mathematically, it’s a no-brainer case of rounding up. 

 

Today, of course, rounding is a faulty exercise. It stings.  

Generally speaking, I’m not a fan of special days on the calendar. I never have announced my “balloon day” on Twitter. I see how these posts generate lots of likes, but I don’t need that. It’s not an achievement when I have another birthday. "Still here." 

Technically, I did a few things right to still be around. I regularly look both ways before crossing the street. I wash my lettuce (or, more accurately, because I’m lazy, I rarely buy the stuff, even as a vegetarian). Skydiving will always be a firm, “Hell no!” I made it through the AIDS crisis. Doctors successfully removed my melanoma thirty-five years ago and it hasn’t come back (that I know of). I haven’t fainted upon seeing a grizzly while hiking. (Worst fainting injury: broken foot—in my home, not on a trail.) 

 

So birthdays…meh. Call me a humbug—it fits—but I don’t get excited about getting drunk on New Year’s Eve. (Do I even have to finish the obligatory flute of champagne?) Easter? I’m not much for chocolate. Pride? Too often it feels like people wanting to call maximum attention to themselves wearing as little as possible instead of a rally to consider what rights need our vigorous support locally, nationally and globally. Thanksgiving? I do love a pumpkin pie and I always make one sometime within a six-week window of the holiday, but it’s rarely on the designated day. Christmas? Yay, “Rudolph.” Yay, shortbread. But, personally, it feels like the loneliest time of year. 

 

I prefer ordinary days. Basically, I do better on days like May 17 and November 3, random squares on a desk calendar. Maybe it’s National Pizza Day somewhere or Polka Dot Sock Day. I prefer randomness and quirkiness to obligatorily hyped days laden with expectations. Let me make something of May 17. Let me occasionally make ordinary extraordinary, all my own doing.

 

This is also why I don’t like Valentine’s Day. Hallmark, the flower industry, chocolatiers and primary school teachers have done a masterful job grooming us to acknowledge the day. Considering what happened to me this Valentine’s, I like the day even less.

 

But an anniversary has always seemed to matter to me. It’s not just the passing of time that makes an anniversary happen. This milestone is a result of commitment, communication and doing the hard work that allows a relationship’s continuation. There are lots of perks, of course—support, feeling seen and understood, sex, spontaneous laughter, truly connected conversations, a companion to do things with you wouldn’t do for yourself like make pasta from scratch or splurge on a stay at a magical hotel in a national park, someone to nudge you out of your comfort zone, getting you to ride a roller coaster or go to an EDM concert. An anniversary is a celebration of the work, the joy and connection that two people are invested in. 

 

Today was supposed to be a genuine day of pride, not just Pride in the LGBTQ sense but PRIDE, all-caps, and appreciation of all we had experienced and an excitement that much more was to come.

 

Not to be. 

 

This March 6^th represents failure in the absence of a card or call. My parents have been married for sixty-three years, my sister for thirty-seven, my brother for thirty-four. Once again, I didn’t make it to two. And that’s not even counting time from the point of a ceremony. Weddings aren’t a marker for me. I didn’t even have the right to marry in a place where I lived until I was thirty-eight. It wasn’t a part of what I envisioned as a long-term relationship. I don’t need the hype of it. It’s not a must for me. Right now, of course, that prospect feels as ludicrous as it did when I first came out and was trying to find a relationship that stretched past two weeks.

 

I long ago stopped counting my relationships in two-week intervals, but now it’s two years that feels woefully short.

 

So today is just March 6^th. An ordinary day. Cue Duran Duran. On any other day, ordinary would be just what I asked for. But on this day, it’s not what I want at all.

 

 

 

  

CLOSE THE DOOR

The different vantage points between dumper and dumpee fascinate me. I don’t think the topic is discussed enough. It explains why breakups can be so messy, why the dumped dude is so emotional, reactionary and far from his best self. Not only has the dumper determined they’re not a match, the perspectives are woefully mismatched, one focused on the future, the other already seeing things in the past.

 

Four years ago, I was the dumper. A five-month relationship that came to be because of COVID lockdown. I realized it would never go deeper. Even then, I had a clear sense in the abstract that the dumpee had it worse. In a blog post, I wrote:

Being the one who is broken up with is so much harder. Sometimes it’s completely unexpected and, even when there are plenty of clues, it can feel like being blindsided.

 

I would have been the wrathful subject of a Paula Abdul song (please, not an Alanis Morissette or Taylor Swift tune) to be unaware of how hard Daniel took it. He’d done nothing wrong. I had zero desire to hurt him. Pre-breakup, I’d put in the time, mulling over what we had and didn’t have. By contrast, he was still fully committed to us when I had The Conversation. He hadn’t considered any sort of exit plan. 

 

I’ve been fortunate to fall in love five times. (Sadly, none has gone the distance. No anniversary posts on Twitter. This is why I don’t change my status on Facebook. That “in a relationship” thing? Yeah…never mind.) 

 

I haven’t been the dumpee since my first love disintegrated forty-two years ago. I was devastated and inconsolable. I remember showing up at John’s place at three in the morning a couple of days later, sobbing, begging and seeking answers. Even with his disclosure that he’d been and was still seeing a good friend of mine, it wasn’t enough to jolt me into moving on. Emotions had to play themselves out—a loss, even if wronged—before the brain could bring some sanity to the situation. He was never going to be my Forever Love. 

 

Here I am, dumped once more. This is Day 12 of being alone again (naturally). (Sometimes a wallowing song makes me smile.) 

 

I’m not nearly as emotional. Life will go on. I know this. My track record would seem to indicate this would be the logical conclusion. Evan too has a similar past. Oddsmakers wouldn’t have bet on us. Still, I was all in, and so was he, for a few weeks shy of two years. I feel humbled and humiliated, but that comes with a shrug. As a highly/harshly self-critical introvert, there are always humiliations pending. This episode just takes it to the nth degree. It’s the circumstances and Evan’s explanation that I have struggled to accept. His reading of me and of us in the last twenty-four hours of our relationship felt completely off…so off, in fact, that I thought he’d “come to his senses” and want to do the work with me to get us on track again. The breakup came after a great deal of stress. He’d just made a big move from Seattle to Denver that proved to be full of glitches. He was diving into a new job, navigating new policies, procedures and colleagues. And then an acute illness made matters worse. I did what I could to listen and support from Vancouver. We’d agreed about when I would come and stay for two weeks but suddenly it couldn’t come soon enough. Indeed, it didn’t.

 

Making big decisions under high stress is often not a good thing. Telling the boss, “I quit!” may feel good in the moment. Instant relief. Sometimes such a decision has been a long time coming. No regrets. It needed to be.

 

But he quit me. He quit us. No regrets? Did it really need to be? I couldn’t get my head around getting dumped. I still saw our future. I kept waiting for a text, an email, a call.

 

Nothing.

 

Finally, after eight days, I texted: 

Can we schedule a FaceTime call? I’m not mad and I won’t be emotional. I just need closure.

 

He agreed, said he had some questions, too. We set a time the next morning. I wrote down some questions and thoughts. I do the same now when I go to the doctor’s. If this was going to be our last chat, I didn’t want to wake up at three in the morning that night or a week later with a growing list of things I should have asked.

 

It was a tough call for each of us, for different reasons. I’m not going to deny I’d hoped we’d talk through things and agree to try again. The moment his face appeared on the screen, I knew that prospect was hopeless. There was no warmth, no smile, nothing of the jovial person I loved. He was on guard, jarringly stoic, perhaps stressed, perhaps wishing he were having all his teeth pulled instead…without the anesthetic. 

 

Still, I had no pride. I’d flown to Denver to get dumped in first our ten minutes back together on Valentine’s Day. What’s an extra helping of humiliation? So I reiterated that I didn’t want the breakup. I was still invested in us…if he’d be open to it. 

 

Dead air. Dead relationship.

 

All righty then. On with the questions. I suppose, as the dumpee, it was my turn to dump. More than questions, I needed to defend my character and what we had. His version which came out during the dumping undersold me and us. It was all for naught. He listened uncomfortably. “I don’t see how this is helping,” he said at one point and then, “How much more do you have?” Understandable. When he’d pronounced us dead, I’d wanted to flee. When I had the chance to more clearly give my perspective after the in-the-moment shock of Is this really happening?!, it was his turn to want to flee. 

   

He held on. He stuck it out. I commend Evan for agreeing to the call. He’s a good man. 

 

Having gone through this and thinking back on how things ended with John, with Daniel and a few other longer-term relationships, I’m a believer in a closure call. Under the right circumstances—calm voices, a willingness to listen, basic respect—it evens things up a bit in terms of allowing both people to move on. While the dumper was and still is ahead in this regard—his decision, his timing, his prior period of mulling—the dumpee has an opportunity to share thoughts and feelings after facing bad news while in some degree of shock. 

 

The closure call isn’t fun for the dumper. When Daniel kept wanting to raise things with me, I allowed it. I knew he needed it. He was in pain. Maybe I could help him get over me. (How hard could it be? My flaws and deficiencies are many.) It’s uncomfortable when the dumper has to listen after getting his exit pass. Do we really have to go back over this? I say yes. Not fun but neither was getting dumped. It’s not about wrath or payback or venting. The person who only days ago was your partner and still in love is owed this last conversation, a chance to say things he couldn’t express in the moment of being blindsided. Hopefully being somewhat composed, the dumpee can ask the whys and maybe cross off a few wonderings so they don’t continue to swirl in his mind. There’s dignity in allowing a closure call as part of a more complete ending.

 

In truth, I didn’t get much satisfaction from the call. Nothing I said changed his mind. It saddens me that our versions of our relationship are so different, that he diminished what I gave and what we had. Part of me thinks that’s what someone may have to do in order to walk away. Regardless, I had my say. I didn’t leave anything on the table. 

 

Up until the end and extending until nine days after, I know I gave it my all. (I keep playing a Dido song as a little affirmation.) That first glance of him on the screen turned out to be the biggest help. There would be no going back. It’s not the look I wanted to see, but it brings clarity. There is no hope. I must find a way to move on, single once again. It’ll be okay. I will heal. There is much I like about being alone.

 

A little while after the call, I texted him a thank you, acknowledging it couldn’t have been fun for him. [But, hey, bright side. All his teeth are intact. His beautiful smile remains to dazzle Denver.] He replied saying it was “painful” while wishing me the best. 

 

Door closed. I don’t have to keep jigging the handle or checking the lock.

 

THE END