So long ago now—seven, almost eight months—it’s like November never happened at all. More a memory of a dream than an experience, or a scar. Everything they’d toiled for and built together demolished in a rash instant. Or perhaps that was what they’d been wading toward all along. Over the course of the years, they’d both grown up and—however gradually—apart. They drifted so far apart that when Michelle needed his help again, he’d been too puny to return the favor. The egocentric prick had taken her self-destruction personally and let all his fear, resentment, and rage fester and scar, fester and scar, until that voice hissing in the darkest corner of his thoughts got what it wanted. It—he had wanted to be free of her, wanted her gone. Since he couldn’t cram her into the mold of his expectations, he’d opted for the easy way, the coward’s route. Too chickenshit to fight for the only woman he’s ever loved and who’s ever loved him. Instead, when the mother of his son had cowered in need, he trampled on top of her, used her as a soapbox for his self-righteousness with an audience of one.

But in the end, she was right: he is a monument of such inadequacy that he isn’t beyond merely purpose, but also function. He was and remains a failure. First he’d failed Papa, then Al, later her, and so naturally it’s only a matter of time till he fails Junior, too.

Their son. Michelle was and remains the mother of their son.

His hands lift through the dumpster’s fumes, palms upturned, reaching for her, gingerly. Can’t she see? He’s unarmed. Swears he won’t hurt her. Just hear him out, just—please?

He tells her he’s so, so sorry. Let him—he’ll do anything. Please.

But Michelle is as gone as ever. It’s the cashier who takes a step back before his fingertips can stroke her cheek. She peeks at her phone’s clock. “My break’s over. You, uh, take care. See you in an hour, right?”

Palms drag over his face. He offers an apologetic chuckle, tries explaining it’s been a long, long time since he’s smoked. Hit him too hard, got him way up in his head and all, but yeah. Thanks, though. What time is it?

“Three forty-five.”

“Fuck.”