We’ve been doing this gig for almost a year now. Last week you turned to me with a leer and said, “Babe, look how much money we got. We’re rich, bitch!” Your fat hands caressing the dollar bills, much more lovingly, may I add, than you ever touched me.

And I realized in that moment just how much I hate you. And my plan began to crystallize in my head, taking shape, just waiting for the right moment.

*
The last time we did it, it was a Thursday night. Must’ve been 10 p.m. We stopped at a 7-eleven for some smokes and you looked at me with that crazy look in your eyes and said, “Let’s do this.” And I knew then, in that moment, watching the manic expression on your face, your trigger finger twitching, that this would be the last time for me.

So I asked you to get a bottle of vodka along with the usual Marlboro’s and I spiked your drink with a heavy dose of Valium. It only took you twenty minutes to pass out cold.

By midnight I was on I-95, heading into the rest of my life. Clyde-less at last.