Real time 9:30 Sunday night

9:24. I’m going to start working on my new short story at 9:30.

The downstairs kicking-and-screamers started arguing one minute ago. She just walked out of the apartment. He just stormed after her. If she does not leave, this will get physical. Quickly. If she does leave, it will get physical when she comes home in the middle of the night.

9:25. I’m going to start working on my new short story at 9:30. It’s the story of a man whose ex sends him a friend request. He doesn’t know whether to accept or decline. Then the story cycles back and forth between their past and their future. At the end, the man makes his decision.

9:26. She didn’t leave. He’s yelling her name over and over and cursing. The saddest part of sadness it the monotony. It is the same fight every time. He doesn’t trust her. He thinks she sees other men. She doesn’t trust him. She says he stole her car.

9:28. I’m going to start working in two minutes. I’m going to plug my headphones into my laptop and turn the music up to dangerous levels so I don’t have to hear them. When the abuse turns physical, it won’t matter how high the music is. My feet will feel the old familiar feeling as the floor beneath me, the ceiling above them, shakes.

9:30.

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