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“I could never love you,” she says as her stomach churns, head spins, and heart splits.

“Good. I don’t want anyone’s love. Too much hassle. What type of bread did you want?”

“Cinnamon raisin.”

She watches him disappear into the Waffle House.

She pledges to never speak to him until he admits he loves her in return.

They eat their morning after breakfast sandwiches and gulp their vodka spiked orange juice in silence.

He doesn’t mind, notice, or perhaps care. She never can tell.

She has too much to say, so she purses her thin lips after every second, tiny bite.

She looks at the reflection of her lap in the windshield instead of him. Her inner lap pleads with her to reconsider this love crusade and beg him to eat her for breakfast. The argument between her crotch and her dead grandma who constantly warned of dying a lonely, loose, cat woman, spinster becomes as deafening as this new silence.

Sad, how someone new and talkative with strange novellas and hang ups wrapping around his cerebellum after one night could become so sullen.

The change makes her want to tickle him till he cries and smother him till he dies.

He drops her home without opening her car door or walking her to her porch.

She stands in front of her front door slightly drunk swaying and praying to find her house key.

He drives away before she eases the key into the lock.

He doesn’t call.

She pretends she doesn’t mind, notice, or perhaps care.