"Before you move out of my life," he texted, "I would appreciate an explanation of what the hell happened".
It was going to happen; nothing could change that, and he was no longer interested in trying. But there was no explanation varied, contradicted themselves, and were all predicated on the concept that she was without fault. One last explanation, and it would be over.
"We should talk," she texted back. "I am looking at an apartment Friday, and going out Sunday."
"Then Saturday," he suggested.
"Yes," she agreed.
Saturday was a good day for him. It started with a vigorous exercise class in the morning, family chores and then a little work during the day, and closed with a bit of gardening in the early evening. He pondered where they would have dinner. Walking would be best; that way he could have a second beer or a pitcher, their last pitcher after so many.
Jeff's pickup parked in front. He had been their friend. She stepped out, in a nice dress and (he noticed) the enhancements in her bustline that they had previously derided as "chicken cutlets." They smiled at each other, and left.
This was a surprise, and yet not much of a surprise. She never remembers appointments or promises.
In a way, it was the whole of the conversation that was necessary - a most efficient explanation.