I especially enjoyed the part where Donna slept with me and then promptly left me again.  That was definitely the most fun I've had in years.

See, what I don't understand is how she can convince me we have a chance to fix this thing and then devastate me again in the space of an hour.  That's got to be a new record.  To make things worse, it was one of those moments that you never can remember; it's all just images and angry words tangled together.

The look on her face as she stood there, the blanket from my bed wrapped protectively around her body.  Her thighs wrapped around me, her mouth hungry and desperate on mine.

Words, anger, and vitriol spilling from my mouth.  A quaver in her voice as she shook her head at me, denied me.

Her blonde locks on my slate sheets, shimmering in the faint light from the street.  Her wide, blue eyes shining with tears.

The rustling as she dressed out in the hallway, beyond my reach.  My own breathing, harsh and loud in the sudden silence of my bedroom.

Mostly I remember the feeling, the searing pain as I realized that it's really over.  No matter how much I might want it to be salvageable, this thing between Donna and me is too far gone.

How did we get from tentative reconciliation and desperately passionate sex, to me sitting alone on a mattress that's still warm from Donna's body while, she waits in the living room for a cab?  She can't even stand to be in the same room with me anymore.

I can hear her pacing; the floorboard over by the window creaks every few minutes.  Hell, I can even hear her breathing, slowly and evenly.  A little too evenly, which means she's trying not to cry.  There's a part of me that wants to go out there and comfort her.  But I can't, because most of the rest of me wants to go out there and scream at her, and I think I've done enough of that for one night.

I know her well enough to interpret her breathing patterns, and yet she is a complete stranger to me.  I don't know this Donna.  Where is the woman who cared about me?  Who wanted to marry me?

How did this happen?

I shift on the bed, a little cold.  The sheets are cool against my skin as I stare up at the ceiling, one arm stretched out onto the empty half of the mattress.

Oh, who am I kidding?  I know exactly how this happened.  This always happens.  I don't know why, but I can't ever remember it being different.  My track record with women is, in a word, pathetic.

Mary Eleanor O'Shaughnessy was the first, way back in middle school.  I got drunk at a party on a few gulps of beer and kissed her.  Mary Eleanor wore my jacket non-stop for a week, and we held hands in the hallways.  Then Ethan Bolling transferred from Greenwich East and Mary Eleanor pitched my jacket (and a significant portion of my self-esteem) into the Pemigewassett River.

There's a crack in the ceiling.  Frowning, I squint up at it; I should really get that fixed.

Since then, the pattern has pretty much held.  Women take up with me, realize that I can be somewhat oblivious and possibly a mite overbearing, and they take off for greener pastures.  Sometimes they don't even bother leaving me for someone else.  Sometimes they just can't stand me anymore.  Mandy Hampton comes to mind.

But that is a long, complicated, and depressing story.  My point is, there are certain areas of my life in which I am less than over-confident.  That is to say that although I am predisposed to falling quickly for the wrong women, I also must be struck repeatedly about the head with a blunt object before I'll actually believe any woman wants me.

All of which is by way of saying -- I should have seen this coming.  I should have known that, no matter how right my relationship with Donna felt, it would end in ruins.  Just like all that came before.

I hear a horn beep and feel quite suddenly nauseated.

This is it.  Donna's going to walk out that door and then this amazing thing we built months ago will be well and truly over.

I tense, half-sitting up, and curb the urge to run after her and beg her to stay.

Does that mean I still love her?

Oh, who am I kidding?  This thing with Donna and me -- I meant it when I told her it was permanent.  I meant it when I said she was my Dogstar.  I just can't see myself getting over her.

Of course, I can't see myself getting over the Cliff incident, either, which means I guess I'll just have to adjust to life without her.  I must be able to do that; I did it before.

I can hear her gathering her purse, heading for the door.

So what if she's already dating?  Already sleeping with other people.  I should get up, go out into the living room, and stop her.  Tonight, Donna seemed to think this thing between us was fixable, and for a brief, incredibly stupid moment, I let myself believe that this time was different.  All of those calamitous relationships of mine were in the past.  This is Donna, and I'm a big enough man to forget all about the Republican.  I was finally confident that I wouldn't screw it up, because it's Donna.

The tumblers rattle as she unlocks the door, and I still can't seem to move.  I'm staring at the wall, the one that separates me from Donna, and I can't get up.  I can't go after her.  I just can't.

I can't get the horrifying image of Donna with Cliff out of my mind.

I jump at the sound of the door closing behind her, my paralysis broken.  But instead of running out into the street in my boxers and unbuttoned jeans, I find myself at the window.  There are no lights on in my room; she can't possibly see me here.

At first, I see only the cab, a tacky, bright yellow, late model Ford, idling at the curb in front of my brownstone.  And then my stomach lurches, because Donna's blonde head appears below, her hair trailing behind her as she practically runs down the stairs.

My palm is flat against the glass, and I freeze when she hesitates.  She's got the car door open, one foot already inside, but she stops and looks up.  For a second, I'm convinced she's coming back.  She stares up at the window, at me, and I'm paralyzed.

Then she slips into the car, and I'm in free fall.

Just like that, Donna leaves me.  It wasn't her choice back in May, when our own private solar system spun out of control.  But now, tonight, she left me because she wanted to.  She took her sparkly space dust and left me here in the dark, and I don't know that I can ever forgive her for that.

The phone is beside my bed, and I grab it without thinking.  I'm halfway through dialing her number -- I'm not sure if I want to plead with her or yell at her -- before I forcibly stop.  Because after all, Donna doesn't want me; this thing is over.  We're through.

I stare at the numbers, slightly blurred for reasons that remain obscure to me, and try to think.  When that doesn't work, I reach over to the nightstand for my wallet and pull out a business card.  The phone rings a few times before I get the machine, and I wince a little at the tone.

"Amy, it's Josh.  I'm -- I'm home.  Now.  I'm home now, and I'm free.  If you wanted to have that talk."

THE END

01.30.02