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This story is called THE BITTER END AND WHATEVER FOLLOWS

"By the Gods! You love her, don't you?" Melanie whispers, and I can hear her heart break. "Yes." I choose to sit down on the bed, my eyes cast to the marble tile of our bedroom. "Oh dear, oh dear..." she whispers, a tear cascading down her porcelain cheek. I open my mouth, then close it, unsure of what to say, what could possibly be appropriate at this moment. She speaks instead, her voice holding a newfound solidity. "Since when?" I gape at her, frozen in shock. "I asked you a question, Michael!" she grinds out, whatever sadness had overcome her now transformed into bitter rage. "Since the beginning, before we met." I murmur, my voice abandoning me. "Then why did you do even try with me? Why?" she's yelling now, and I stand up to comfort her. A slap on my arm stops me, and I make my way towards the vanity, my fingers fiddling with the various bottles of creams and lip tints. A dry sob cracks my calm facade, the slam of the door shatters it.

I'm not sure how many hours have passed, but I'm still here, sitting by the vanity. In my wretched state I've managed to completely rearrange the make up bottles, my inner O.C.D overcoming me. Melanie is still out, possibly at her mother's place, probably in her studio downstairs, painting. I should go and find her, try to talk to her. I know that whatever miserable excuse of a marriage this was has completely self-destructed, and I know I should call our lawyer tomorrow. I get up, reaching for the door when a gleam catches my eye. There, on the tiled floor by our bed, the bed we've made love on for hours on end, is Melanie's wedding band. It gleams and shines, reflecting the dim light of the room. What a bitter end to a tragic relationship, I think, and pick it up. "Till death do us part." I mutter. I guess divorce really is another form of death.


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