Packing Up

I packed up the bastards shit yesterday. I was thinking of being all cliche and throwing it out of the 3rd floor windows. 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 at the front of the house and I could just make out the 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 couldn't explain the feeling I had after I closed the door and listened to the sound of my husband and his mid-life crisis roaring off into the sunset. I had just faced the man who had broken my heart and not let an inch of the hurt he had caused me to 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'. As if there were any winners or losers in this kind of situation. But there is one thing that still puzzles me to the point of keeping me awake at night: if I am so much better off without him and if I have come out of this whole thing the better woman, then why do I feel so decrepit and alone and why can't I say his name?