The Butcher moved out in typical Butcher fashion–he took the balalaika and left his bed. If you didn’t hear the wind whistling through the big empty part in my heart, you might not even immediately get that there was an absence.

I have had my heart broken in many ordinary ways–people stopped loving me, people died, I lost track of them, not quite meaning to. But this way is new. This feeling like you both don’t want it to happen and that it’s exciting that it’s happening and good things could come of it.

I want the Butcher to have a big, rich life, because that’s what he let me have. If he hadn’t moved in with me, I couldn’t have stayed here. He gave me the chance to pursue my life. If there’s something he wants, by god, I want him to have it. I just wish he were having it across town. That way we could still hang out on Saturdays, still make our private jokes when they occur to us.

Anyway, he left. He cried and I cried and we were both very grateful to the other. And then he left, and I cried some more.

I tried to work up a way to be annoyed at him or pissed, but it wasn’t enough to keep this from sucking.

In a bit, I have to go through the house and see what I need from Walmart. Walmart. Honestly, it just adds insult to injury. But it makes it tangible. I can’t offload the unpleasant crap onto the Butcher anymore.

How will we share the pleasant stuff?