Taxes. You wrote to me about taxes. No hello, no how are you. No I miss you, no sense that I am – was – anything more than the final stop in a line of Getting Things Done. The bitterness that welled up when you had the… audacity to suggest you were doing me a favour by having my taxes done for free; it was unexpected. As if you would have to come up with such a,.. a cheap reason for me to be agreeable.
People say it’s probably for the best that you weren’t nice, that you didn’t stray from a cold and clinical civility. I don’t know; they’re probably right. It probably would have yanked me backwards, and made packing up and saying goodbye even harder than it has already been.
But it still would have been nice. Been … something. I want to know you miss me, like I miss you. That you ache like I ache. That you cry yourself to sleepless nights. That you _bleed_ like I do at the razor sharp memories of our marriage.
Do you bleed?