Without wasting time, she turned to me, mouth wide open, mostly in the shape of a smile. I looked away, I wanted no part in this, but I could feel her bright blue eyes on me.

I wanted to report her to whatever board manages therapist's licenses. This was ridiculous; clearly, she was a hack.

I bear hugged her so we were chest to chest, and slowly walked backward down the stairs. She had her footing on some stairs, and could help carry her weight, while on others her feet floated across like a ballerina.

She then came barreling out of her room, rattling off times he had abused her. I held her back, why he listened stoically, like Dexter Morgan.

My truck seemed to pull itself off the road and into a parking lot, braking for a group of Asian tourists laughing and smiling. I idly thought about running them over while they slowly bounced across the blacktop. I parked under a street light, and sat in the car for about 10 minutes in silence before getting out. I was at the Golden Gate Bridge.

This was visibly the moment our relationship ended. She actually recoiled. Instead of saying “Oh my darling, lets never be apart again,” the whole hypocrisy of it all broke something in her.

There is no good way to share sad news, so I’m just going to blurt it out. Justine and I have split up.  There it is—that’s the message behind this whole post, and I will not think any less of you if you decide not to read further.