Facedown in the Mud

“Get out!” she screamed, barreling her fists into my upper body. “Go away, get out!

The door flew open, and just like that, I had met the side of the country road.

In other words: I was facedown in the mud.

I could hear the engine sputter back to life, and the chauffeur drive off with a very frustrated female in the backseat. So: another one, gone, screaming, shouting, maybe some tears. It always happened sooner or later. Was I cursed? Possibly. Probably.

But the result was always the same: they were gone. I found it interesting, however; they left by different means. One, an airplane, another, by train, the next, a nasty incident with a very tall bridge…and of course, the limo. Her limo. She had seemed different.

But then again, I was facedown in the mud. Because of her.

So no. I guess she wasn’t different. Hoped for it, maybe, but probably assumed somewhere in my subconscious that it wouldn’t work out.

It didn’t, because as we have already concluded:

I was facedown in the mud.

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