Just to change things up, I decided to go epistolary. This story is based on Rihanna’s “Take a Bow.”
I thought I’d write this in an email, seeing as how your news came to me via the condom wrapper left on our bedroom floor, a flimsy red A-cup discarded (on purpose?) under the bed and lacy panties, not mine, non-discreetly flung in my bathroom hamper. Someone certainly wanted to make sure I knew she was there.
I’ve changed the sheets, burned them actually in an old metal trash can in the back alley and watched cotton incinerate while my girlfriends and I drank all of your ice-cold beers, your trashy watered-down beers that you bought in cartons to keep you buzzed while you play Zelda, and sang goodbye to old rubbish.
After watching the last ember blacken, we moved inside to drink your coveted tequila collection minus the worms. Don’t even think of complaining or demanding recompense. My house, my rules.
The only girl missing from this party was Jacqueline, which makes me think the A-cup is hers. I guess she was very grateful for the job you gave her.
I’ve put your things out in the driveway. Sorry if it rains. (Not sorry.)
There’s more to say about love and lying and fidelity, but your ears seem deaf and I don’t have breath to waste. I already have years I can never get back.
I’ve changed the locks, all of them, including the ones to my heart.
You’re not welcome here anymore.
Signed, Someone You Used to Know