I should have known it wouldn’t work out. We were too different: like the Sting song, you drink coffee I drink tea (my dear). You say faucet, I say tap. You miss out nearly all your ‘u’s’, in favourite, or colour. Mine is red, by the way. Yours black, which according to strict definition isn’t even a colour.
You drink your coffee black too, and it never crossed your mind that sometimes it would have been nice if you bought a carton of milk on your way home from work instead of leaving it up to me.
Your over-zealous use of the letter ‘z’ was also a problem. As was your insistence in pronouncing oregano stressing the second syllable instead of the third. And don’t even get me started on zucchini and eggplant.
When I complained, you got all uppity. Suggested I needed therapy. That I had issues. Period. Which is what you said instead of full-stop.
You couldn’t seem to get your head around the fact that we invented this language called English. That’s why it is called English, not American. You plain wouldn’t listen when I got started on that. Said ‘talk to the hand’, like you were on Jerry Springer.
Perhaps the biggest mistake was making our relationship both a personal and professional one. I should never have asked you to edit my work. Not you. You who I once loved for the way you sang all the wrong lyrics to songs by the Police. ‘Simone’ instead of ‘So Lonely’. ‘Rucksack’ instead of ‘Roxanne’. That kind of thing.
I bought flowers today, on a whim. Purple. Only, now you’re not here, I can’t describe them. You’ve gone, and all I do is sit staring at this blank page in my notebook, praying for inspiration that won’t come.