Variations of the Same - by  petrag </span>

             One stray hair floated up and down as he breathed. I watched his nostril boredly. The alarm would ring in five minutes, and I was eager to leave.

            It always came to this. Despite best efforts, each one was the same. It did not matter whether we met at work, in a café, seated side-by-side for a play – they were all alike.

“Nora,” Suzie would say exasperatedly, “They’re all different. We can never tell what you’ll go for next.”

Why then did every relationship eventually feel like a dreadful Groundhog Day revival? Like a bad film that refused to stop playing over and over, no matter how hard one tried to influence the turn of inevitable events.

Good God, I hated this. I heard a muffled moan.

Bleakly, I realised his grunts no longer held the power to create desire and arouse. I toyed with the idea of smothering him to death with a pillow.

Two boyfriends ago, I concluded that there is no perfect way to initiate a breakup. Opening phrases had a tendency of sounding like bad pick up lines. Explanations just made things worse.

“It’s not you, it’s me.” (It’s you! It’s you!)

“We’re no longer traveling in the same direction.” (Who are you, Marco Polo?)

These were the kinder explanations, which unfortunately were too vague to cause anything but confusion.

Then there were the accusations.

 “You made use of me.” (It took you this long to realise a fact like this? Thank God I’m getting rid of you, you vicious, slow sap.)

“I can’t believe you’re willing to throw everything we have away.” (What? Boredom? Your adolescent-dick jabs at raw fish, poodles and men in tights? I could maim you blind with wasabi, present poodle your ass, strangle you with tights – but I’m too kind. I did masturbate to the lead in Swan Lake, though – not that I’ll ever tell you)

 And how does one choose not to answer?

 “What’s he like?” (Nothing much, but it won’t be you I’ll be seeing next week, thank God.)

“Who is he?” (It’s a she, but I don’t think your ego can handle it.)

            “Do you still have feelings for me?”

             This always stumps me. Yes, I still care for you as a friend. Yes, I feel like punching you. Yes, I might still feel like fucking you – but you annoy me too much to be anything but. Yes, I love you and leaving you feels like I’m manually removing an organ – but it hurts too much to stay. All of which amounts to No.

             The rain was pounding on the sidewalk as I struggled against the cold wind by pulling my coat around me harder, tighter. Water splashed as vehicles flew past. For the first time, I noticed how the puddles split and formed again.

            “Taxi!” I waved my hand frantically and called. It refused to stop. Angrily, I stomped on the ground, droplets pouncing everywhere. I shook my coat rather ungracefully, balancing briefcase and umbrella.

            Warmth greeted me as I stumbled into the cab. The driver looked bored. He was smoking in long, luxurious drags, fingers clasping cigarette gently as he rested the heel of his palm against the window.

            I peered in the mirror. Makeup looked fine, I looked fine. I refused to fall apart.