Doing Much Better Now, Thanks
He stared at his cupcake, its soft artificial pink was much softer than the artificial pink of her skin, which he had once loved.
Sometimes he looked at art. Cubism. Braque, not because it didn’t remind him of her – it didn’t – but because it was good. Braque knew his cubes.
Like, should he stalk her to find out what café she dines at just to avoid it himself? That seemed counter-intuitive.
He had even discarded all the tapes, not because he had memorized them all, but because he needed space for his new record collection.
He was just that cured.