"If you want to leave, then leave." I replied
"I'm not talking about Paris at the end of the year. I mean now. Today"
"Neither am I" I replied. Stupidly, knowingly.
And so she left, but not that day.
I spent the next two evenings (our last together) piecing it together and trying to construct a form that would hold all my feelings of inadequacy and resentment and sheer fucking blinding love that were battling it out in my head and heart. I walked the streets in the city centre, headphones on listening to Interpol and wishing I had Paul Banks' left-handed literacy and the immediacy of their music so that I could change her mind. All this was being done secretly though. I told her that it was me who was cutting her loose, that it was my decision and it was my ideals of self-preservation that had to be realised now. I told her all this in a tearful speech - her in bed freshly awoken and me leaning up against the window - and as usual the upper hand was wrestled from her as I tried to turn the things she said against her and play the innocent and heartbroken victim. My life, my right, my soul, my loss etc... So fucking lame when I think about it now. She saw right through it of course, as she always did.
And so she left.