Perfectionism

I could get up and fight back, or I could lay on the floor and watch the implosion of a man enter my sphere and take over.  I wouldn't have a lot of time, either, because he was making his way toward me, and, even if his intent was to go after the tidbit memories of Christmas on the mantle, his real objective was to go after me, to annihilate us.  I had one edge.  I knew that he wanted to do his deeds in secret, no matter how loud and angry he exhibited his immaturity to me with the flailing of arms and devices and punches.  I knew that it didn't matter what his girth moved, where his pelvis thrust, because it couldn't change the reality of the situation, and that was very basic: he couldn't cope.  I was successful for the first time in a long time, and definitely for the first time since we were together, and it was decidedly more recognized than he had imaged it could be.  The space existed where he wasn't the best.

I got up then, and moved toward the front door.  It was 22 degrees outside, and the crust of the snow would cut against my slippered by unsheathed ankles.  It didn't matter.  What mattered was that I break the consolidation that kept our reality between the two of us; what mattered was that I find a razor blade to slice open this industrial strength plastic of our mutual delusion.  His ego would wilt in the sunlight and fresh air, I was sure. Problem was, I was wrong.