I can't even look at her anymore.
I can't look at her without thinking about how she spends her weekends.
Everything that she does with him.
How little I mattered to her when faced with an opportunity to live a life of unbridled hedonism.
We don't talk anymore.
Only to ask each other purely logistical questions about our living situation.
I can no longer hide my anger.
And she can't bear to look at what she has done.
So she doesn't.
She closes herself off—sequestered away in her new world of sex and fantasy and immediate gratification.
She ignores me.
The way that she has ignored all of my concerns and needs for the past four months.
She enjoys herself.
She enjoys herself while I sit trapped in our apartment, staring at everything that we used to have while our cat sleeps soundly in my lap.