Contact: wanted and unwanted

The worst thing about this break-up has been keeping in contact with someone who I would much rather banish to the fiery pits of Hell (and my Deleted Items).

From having him within striking distance at the flat, to getting e-mails in the middle of the working day, or missed calls before the working day has even begun, severing all ties with Bastard Ex has been more difficult than I would have liked. These communications are not "I miss you", "I'm sorry" or even "You absolute bastard, I hate you" (although there are plenty of the latter sitting in my drafts), but the sorting of formalities and ticking reminders that what we once shared is nearly - but not quite - gone.

The contact hasn't been all bad though. One particular email this week told me of an argument he was having with the estate agents over fees. Fees which he had agreed to pay in full, given that this big bloody mess is entirely his fault. Fees that were, to my joy, currently standing at £1200. "Oh, poor you." I thought, ignoring that part of the email and consigning it to Deleted Items, "Ain't karma a bitch?"

The rest of the email checked he was ok to come over to pick up his things that night. Although I was due to stay at the flat, thankfully dinner and drinks would keep me out long after his visit. When I stumbled in around 11pm, it was the absence of belongings that hit me more than anything else. The desk was dismantled, the wardrobe door was open and his clothes had gone. The TV stand was empty, his books and belongings cleared. Worse than being surrounded by his things - albeit hidden - was the void left when they were gone.

Before I left for work the next morning, I noticed two moving in cards that had been left on the side. One from my good friend Boston Girl, which included the sentiment "I hope you'll be very happy together". I folded it up and put it on a pile of my things. The other, frog shaped, from his mum and sister, addressed to both of us and wishing us "good luck in your new home".

Knowing that he'd be back to pick up the dismantled desk before I would, I picked up a pen and turned the card over. I couldn't help it. Contact between us has been so devoid of reference to his utterly stupid actions, that it felt wrong to leave him with no last words.

I scrawled my spur of the moment message* on the reverse, and left it on top of his things. A little keepsake from me to him to remind him that once there was more than just trite messages about financials and logistics.

Then I picked up my bag, and went to work.


* I spelt souvenir wrong. It grates on me, but he won't notice.