Fiction: Finally, they were divorced. pt 1 a choose My own Adventure Tragedy

After some delay due to jealousy on the part of rivals such as Wallis, Jimmy's Decipheration of Speech, Pre-School Edition was published.

Conversations, thoughts, and scheduling related to publication often coincided with him discovering and figuring out how to excise little bits of Rayleen from the apartment.

When his friend called to ask him to come a party where the agent who might be interested in representing would be available to receive a good impression, Jimmy had happened to glance down behind the toilet, where the rust and barely spatters of urine gathered, to see a black hair clip. With insect wings and long curved teeth that opened on close on one's hair.

She had left so many hair clips, or scrunchees or bands. And bras too. Under the sofa of the cushion, he found the padded black one that she had brought in a state of emergency discomfort. They had been in Yiwu, going from factory to factory, with all the other vendors, buying mass produced tourist junk that would become, at it's final point of sale, a hand made craft reflecting a towns heart and soul.

One of the products they had gotten there, were little, crappy wooden swords that they had sold to an hunched old lady in communist era blue shirt and pants, up on a mountain village near Hangzhou, where you could hike through wet green leaves and clear water running down all around your feet, scurrying to the lake at the bottom.

He had tossed the wooden sword into the pile of stuff that was mostly Rayleen's. He was either going to try to contact her, wait till she contacted him and then tell her she needed to pick this stuff up, just throw it away and lete he bitch. She wouldn't really care about this stuff. she didn't care enough to take it with her.

He could just throw it away, cleaning up. Now that it was accumulated in a convenient piel. H could just bring in a large plastic bag and it would ready for the big trash barrel outside in under two minutes.

The bras were hidden around in corners, under books, behind the t.v., like they were part of an Easter egg hunt.

At the though of this, of getting rid of the last bits of Rayleen, the dull sens of loss moved around in him, like a vase teetering over a tile floor. And it made him want to turn his pain into violence. It made him feel like this was the reasonable progression from this dull pain. To swing out and kick at the legs of the table, knocking them out of their joints. To bring his fist down on the table top, fracturing, transmitting his pain onto something real, given it life.

But he just couldn't rationalize any violence. It was too late. For so long he had retained this constant need to let loose his violence. But there just weren't any deserving targets. He couldn't pretend that people deserved to be hit, or that destroying his table, sofa and refrigerator would make him better off. But he still wanted it. Wanted the simplicity of breaking, of ruined piles that could only then be thrown out, not discussed and repaired.

What do I do?

continue to mull over nature of my sadness, page 21
call Rayleen , page 322
throw her stuff out, 422