Last Tuesday I returned home from work to find, on my sunlit doorstep, a single yellow flower in a small white vase. In a note propped up against the vase, Rob's scrawled writing explained how he had stolen the flower from the bar in which we met, from the table at which we sat.

I was thrown back into my memories, back to that night three months ago when I fell for him, totally utterly and completely. He was all I could talk about, all I could think about. I wanted to spend every moment with him. I wanted to get drunk with him and tell him secrets, I wanted to wake up with him and make him breakfast, I wanted to talk and to talk until we knew every detail about each other's lives.

And I did. And suddenly we'd learnt everything about each other, and we'd learnt that our everythings didn't collide. We had nothing in common. We had nothing to talk about. The words ran out.

Today, perfectly amiably over drinks in a quiet pub, we split up. No catalysts. No blazing rows. No infidelities. No broken hearts. Just a grown up conversation, a mutual recognition that no, we have nothing left to say, and I promise to still be friends. We laughed at the clichee. We got back into his car and he drove me home. "Something to talk about" came on the radio. We began to sing along. "Something in common!" he exclaimed, laughing. We laughed at the irony.

Returning to my house, I gave him some cds. Some of my cds that I'd been promising to lend him for ages. This is not the way break ups are supposed to go, I thought. But it was the way our break up went. Perhaps it was our way of showing that we meant the clichee. That we will still be friends.

< - >

* the marks of memories forgotten
* wasting emotions, over again
* intentions, and such
* nothing unusual, nothing's changed - just a little older, that's all (damien rice : amie)
* now I understand! It doesn't make sense because it isn't supposed to