Listen. If you’re not going to grow, if you’re not going to commit and make the effort, if you’re not going to stick around, then go already. Don’t waffle. Don’t ruin my holiday season, keeping me on tenterhooks. Don’t leave me twisting with uncertainty, asking the question, “Am I?” Don’t require me to live in this suspended state of not knowing. Hurry up and take your leave. I don’t want more mystery, don’t have the strength to hold hope in abeyance. I want my heartbreak now. I want it broken cleanly, not torn tendon by tendon, cell by cell. You appear to have doubts about your existence. So if you’re on your way out, do it fast. I’m way more attached to you than I realized, even after just six weeks. Or maybe it’s grief over what the loss of you represents? Anyway, don’t be difficult. Go. Now.

And tell Bona Dea to pay attention next time. If there is a next time. If I try. If I allow it. She’d better not be distracted.