Packing Up

I packed up the bastards shit yesterday. I was thinking of being all cliche and throwing it out of the 3rd floor window. Apparently the feeling is sensational. Alas no, I acted as an adult and packed it away neatly into black bin bags - obviously leaving out anything I'd bought him. He turned up at 2, bang on time, something he'd never managed in the 17 years we'd been married. The Ferrari was parked in the front of the house and I could just make out that 6 foot Swedish silicone breast in the front seat draped in a jacket of baby animals. Whore. He didn't look at me the entire time. Just mumbled a pathetic "thanks" and ran off to find his balls. I could never explain that feeling i had after I closed the door and listened to the sound of his midlife crisis roaring off into the distance. I had just faced the man who broke my heart and not let an inch of the hurt he had caused me even flicker onto my face. I could picture the ladies at the tennis club patting me on the back and congratulating me for not letting him "win". But one thing still puzzles me and leaves me awake at night. If I am so much better off without him and if I have come out of this situation the better woman, then why do i feel so decrepit and alone and why can i not say his name?