“I just can’t do this anymore, Ed.” She was serious. “It’s just not going to work.”
“But Kathleen,” I pleaded, “it’s not my fault!”
I knew it was pointless to argue – this wasn’t the first time I’d had a girl break up with me after all. When a woman tells you it’s over, it’s never because they’re looking for stimulating conversation. It’s an expression of power, not an invitation to discussion.
“I don’t want to hear it. We’re done, Ed.”
There it was, the brick wall statement I couldn’t hope to bust through. I hated to hear it – we were so great together, Kathleen and I. Well, obviously she didn’t think so, but she’s not the first, like I said.
My name’s Ed. Ed Thomas. Ed Phono Thomas. ‘Ed’ is actually short for Edison. Yeah, as in Thomas Edison, inventor of the phonograph which, incidentally, should explain my middle name. I know, parents can be cruel.
Speaking of cruel, as I stood there watching Kathleen walk away I could only imagine that maybe I’d rather be burned with irons than by females. Not that I’d ascribe the word “cruel” to my new ex, necessarily, but at that moment I couldn’t think of any more appropriate adjectives.
Oh well, win-some-lose-some. Trouble is, I can’t seem to get the “win” part right. My record stands at 0-5. And that’s only counting this year since January. And it’s March. Yeah. Maybe I should go after Kathleen and thank her for helping me keep my perfect record. Maybe I should just go home.
I went home.