I tell myself I perform retaliations upon Cleo, not guerrilla actions. There are seventeen separate instances I can remember in which she has damaged me, and many more, I’m sure, that lurk underneath my memory. None of this matters to her. I know this, not in the way that depreciating people expect the direction down, but as a certainty. She flits. She’s a flitter and it shits me. I watch her weightlessness with that brand of jealousy that grows in the shape of anger. I resent my resentment of her. I wish that she could mean nothing to me.

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