Savannah Abrishamchian //

One night when it's 73 degrees outside, you get upset because the nightstand is too close to the bed, at least on your side. And you always stub a toe or two. Weekly, you stub a toe or two. And you complain for about six minutes about my decor preference and the position of the bed. You're so flustered in fact, that you continue pacing back and forth with your stubbed toe, or two, to show me the steps between the bed and the nightstand. While you do this, I roll my eyes inside my head. So far back that my ex-boyfriend can sense I'm doing it before you can, because you're still busy complaining about a bad foot you don't seem to walk well on——ever. Somehow, your foot will remind you of your mother and how she shoved an opinion about me up your ass a long time ago. And at this point, you finally wish you agreed with her sooner. What difference does it make? You agree with her now and you'll agree with her tomorrow. Your toe is black and purple from being in your early 30's and frozen inside. Breaking up with me is your ice pack. Finally you met a woman who makes you do your own laundry, and you and your mother think you deserve a maid. A maid who puts the nightstand close and far away enough from your feet so you can't hurt yourself. I start to turn my head every time you stub your toe. I start to turn my head every time you enter a room. You look a little bit uglier when you're angry and when you're almost crying. Your ego grows in our bedroom and my eyes hurt at the sight of you. One night when it's 73 degrees outside and you get upset about the nightstand, I'll jump out the window and never come home.