Leaving

I'm sorry. I know that my coming back is the last thing in the world you wanted. Especially after the way things ended. The way I left. With just a note on the fridge. But I forgot my toothbrush and I was really hoping you wouldn't be here and you know how particular I am about picking out a toothbrush and how hard it would be for me to find one that I liked as much as you. It. As much as it. The toothbrush, I mean.

So, if it's okay... I'd like to just... Go in and get the toothbrush.

(Beat.)

Andrew, I know that you want to scream and yell at me. I know that, I do. I know you probably wanna smack me across the face and call me a whore. And I'd deserve it, too. But the truth is that you could do better. You could find someone less neurotic, less confused, less anxious and hell, you could find someone who didn't have these monster bags under their eyes. And I know that you don't want to find someone better, because you treat me so wonderful. You treat me so perfectly, like gold, really. But the truth is, Andrew, I couldn't take living in this house. I couldn't take watching you sit on that couch day after day, smile on your face as you watch the game, pretending that you're content in this smothering, suburban lifestyle with the housewife who has one very shitty uterus that won't conceive and one very fucked up brain preventing her from leading a normal life.

So, I'm going. And I really thought I could get out of here without ever having to look back. You know. Leave the ring on the counter, a note on the fridge and out the door I go. But I forgot the toothbrush. And so. Here I am.