We’d had a vicious fight, angry and tear-streaked and brutal and personal. She threw a vase; I upended a table. Snarling, she ripped a phone book in half; I karate-chopped through a plate glass window. She bit me, hard, on the elbow, causing blood to well up in carmine, tooth-shaped beads. So I yanked her ponytail.
I’ll tell you, it was a good ol’ rough and tumble brawl, ending only when she stormed out, the door crashing behind her in a hinge-quaking slam. Hours later, a message appeared on my phone, by way of a sheepish, grey-striped cat. It squinted and waved a green pennant.
“I want a divorce,” it said, the letters cartoony and puffy and jaunty, like multicoloured bubblegum bubbles.
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