It is over.
He says it to himself out loud, testing the meaning, trying to gauge how much hurt there is in those four hard syllables. He does not flinch as they bruise the air.
He has been here before. He knows how to cope, The procedure, the action, the process he must follow.
He begins by telling himself he feels nothing. He shrugs his shoulders, hardens his jaw, stiffens his lip. He is determined, resolute, strong.
He knows there is an exorcism to perform, a ritual, a ceremony, an extraction, an eradication. He must obliterate, wash out, abolish, expunge.
He is methodical, thorough, determined. He does not hesitate. He removes her name from his contacts, removes her telephone number, removes every address of any kind, removes every reference, removes her birthday.
He makes certain he cannot show weakness in the future, He cannot bow to sentiment, He cannot make a fool of himself.
He can never be tempted to tell her he wants her.
With great certainty of purpose he blocks her or unfollows her on all the social media, all the networking, all the blogs, all the messaging they shared.
Finally he builds a huge, raging, hungry, devouring, virtual bonfire of everything that would remind him of her.. He deletes all her photographs and videos. He deletes their e-mails. He deletes their messages. He deletes their texts. He deletes their words.
He deletes their history.
He does not look at any of it as it vanishes into the flames His fingers are precise, cold, dispassionate, tapping at the keyboard.
He leans back in his chair.
It is done. It is over.
He takes a deep, dangerous breath.
He blames the tears running down his face
on the smoke
from the bonfire.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Anne Magill