There are absolute absurdities in life, one of them stood in front of me, hands tucked deep into her pockets. She was searching for a letter, something she wrote last night. She said it took her quite a while and I should feel flattered that somebody would spend that much time on me.

I wanted her to shove it. I had grown tired of her games long ago, back and forth with her interest. I could care less how long she spent writing this letter. What did she want- a press conference held with the intentions of figuring out how to award the next literary genius of our times?

It was all a farce, her sticking her hand into her pocket, looking for what she already held between her fingers, ready to give to me. Her intentions of our love. Except for this time it was different. I saw our act, are rerun movie, the one that has been out for too long drawing only the $1.50 ticket sales. I grew bored of it, distaste. I saw her, not for our stormy romance, but more the person who will never be satisfied.