"It's not you, it's me," the beige-colored woman said and I despised her immediately. I mean, I anticipated it - she anticipated it. We were a lousy pair, only held together by the fabric of lust masqueraded as love for two people acutely alone and ill-fitted for the world in general.
I despised her for the cliche. Somewhere, right now, in the world of tired phrases, the guy in charge of 'it's not you, it's me' was blinking moistly, cracked lips parted in disbelief. 'It be resurrected!' He was probably saying. 'It be bloody well resurrected!'
To the accompaniment of hopeful cheers from other atrophied euphemisms.
So as she stayed speaking, her mouth a bizarre hole sitting squat, flanked slightly above by two smaller but equally apalling holes that bore the inclusive name 'nostrils', I wondered if, in an alternative universe, I would have had the guts to beat her to the plug-pulling point, and what I would have said, had I done it.
'You are like a malicious leech, sucking out everything you cannot have from people who have them. No, a leech is too tame. A rancid dementor. A hateful, hateful wretch and I hope you die -' is what I thought I might have said.
So I went ahead and said it, and her eyes widened hysterically as I expressed fervent hopefulness in her demise, and I walked away, stealing her thunder, winning the battle for the first time since I clapped deluded eyes on that face and said 'you make me feel some typa way.'