The falling action, the unpacking of the catastrophe, the last spin around the dance floor, if you will, is not always obvious when youíre in the thick of it. You donít know itís the end until itís over, curtain closed. I donít think I knew, really, that I was leaving forever. No, thatís a lie. I suppose. Who knows?
I asked for a breather. He spun me out to dance on my own, always assuming, I assume, that I would roll back to him, a tidy step. But I just kept spinning. I stumbled; I tripped. I fell on my face. I circled him, thinking that maybe I could pick it back up, find the rhythm, learn a new routine. We danced toward each other, and then away again. And in the end, it wasnít hate and it wasnít Doris and it was Taco Bell bags. It was me.
I had to dance solo.
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Literary Fiction, Noir, Pulp Fiction, Short Stories