“Want tea?” I asked the mug I was putting the bag in.

“Babe, you know I don’t drink tea.”

I looked to him. “A beer?”

He stopped at the end of the counter.

God, not even getting in my space.

I looked away, crumpling up the paper from the teabag and frantically trying to think of something I could do to keep my hands busy.

I could do this. I could lose him. I could live my life without my head in the clouds experiencing the bright flashes of happy he consistently gave to me.

I could do it.

I might even find contentment (one day, in about twenty years).

But it would take everything.

So I’d never do it again.

Mickey was it for me. He had my heart in a way I never wanted it back, not even if he didn’t want it anymore.

I’d go to movies alone. I’d go to bed alone. I’d watch my kids grow up and move away (alone).

I’d find a way to live my life alone.

But I’d never put myself out there again. I’d never give my heart to anyone else.

Because it wasn’t mine to give.

It was Mickey’s.

“Seriously?”

I looked to him again. “I’m sorry?”

“Been away a week, Amy,” he told me.

“As you just returned, I do remember that, Mickey.”

His eyes narrowed and his voice lowered. “Something is up your ass.”

I stared at him, stunned he appeared angry.

“As I shared last night, nothing is up my ass,” I returned.

“Then what the fuck?” he asked.

“What the fuck what?” I asked back.

“Last night you answer the phone like I’m the guy you hired to paint your kitchen. You hang up without sayin’ you love me. Now I get to you after I’m gone a week and you don’t come to me and kiss me and you barely even look at me?”

Was he insane?

“Why would I kiss you?”

His expression went from annoyed disbelief to stormy in a flash.

“Why would you kiss me?” he whispered sinisterly.

“You know, Mickey,” I threw out a hand, “just do this. Don’t draw it out. It doesn’t help anything when you draw it out. Clean cut. Surgical. That’s the way to go.”

“Clean cut. Surgical.” He was still whispering.

The kettle whistled and I moved to it, taking it off its flame.

“Yes. If you would, please,” I requested, not looking at him and moving back to my mug.

“All right then, Amy. I did it,” he stated.

I poured my tea. “Did what?”

“Took my inheritance.”

I set the kettle with a crash to the cement countertop as my eyes flew to him.

“What?” Now it was me who was whispering.

He didn’t answer me.

He turned and walked away, disappearing into the hall that led to my bedroom.