Past Over

Six months has past before he decides to win her back. But once the resolution is made, he acts upon it like there is no tomorrow. A slew of schemes, plans and connivances are tortured and contrived, happy coincidences are concocted to lead him past her work, her door, all in the hope of a chance meeting. How long does this go on for? For days? For weeks? No. Not for long. For then, like a knock out punch he finds it is too late. Others have stepped in. And now we find him, reeling, spinning; in a bar, dizzy and blinking. And let us become him for a moment, let us step inside that fuzzy head of his as he staggers and sways, and as we are now he, and he is now I, we see things are now over. Now truly truly over. She and he circle our me, and jab and punch with flicking punches, punches that punch heads and heads that get punches. That dizzy, dizzy head that he tries to shake clear, as flicks and punches land and knock him from his feet, and he is caused to buckle, at long motherfucking last to buckle. And as he floats and dissolves and slips apart, we leave him, we dislocate and return to our third person, our independence, to the outsider. And as we do, for one brief moment, he actually thinks it matters; for one moment, no longer than a nothing.