How To Tell Your Woman Done Gone (For Dummies)

A Scene taken straight from a Movie:
Where girl silently drifts away
from the self-absorbed dude
who once held her sway, in every way.

Little by little the audience sees
her heart turn towards the open door,
left ajar by his poorly executed but
good intentions.

And when the pain of living a love
that is no longer alive become
too tense a pressure to bear,
when it boil down to the bottom
she will not shed nary another tear.

And perhaps in the most dramatic tradition
he'll come home one day and she'll be gone,
or maybe there'll be a different, new knowing
smile in her eyes, or even:
he stumbles upon her in an unspeakable act.

Or could be that in the hands of an artiste
of thoroughly cruel intention, he'll have his man
with eyes that slowly drift from her to the floor
ask her simply, almost rhetorically:
"why don't you laugh at my jokes anymore?"


ADDENDUM:

Act 3, Scene 3:

More dispirited than embarrassed, he broke from her bemused gaze and stared intently at the floor. "you know I bruise like a grape," he mumbled somberly after sufficiently melodramatic pause. When there was no immediate response, he looked up to find her muffling laughter: during the silence she'd turned away to the muted television just in time to catch a particularly funny scene in a classic movie from the '80's. For the umpteenth time, Lewis had stuffed the salmon down his Santa Claus suit and for the life of her she couldn't keep from sniggering...


ADDENDUM II:

Act 2, Scene 16:

In a moment of sudden clarity the thought came upon her. As is often the case with such bursts of awareness, it arose at a most peculiar time and place: while she was signing autographs after a show. "I'm so over him." During the taxi ride back to the apartment she had ample time to further consider the ramifications. Until now it had not even occurred to S. that for weeks, maybe even months, she'd been in the act of leaving him. Presently the signs came into stark focus for her. A wry smile began to widen as it dawned upon S. how much J., her new personal assistant, actually favored C. Not as he was now; but as he'd looked back then, when she'd originally fallen for him. J. was a bit taller perhaps but still the resemblance was uncanny. The angular face, lean torso, the feminine fingers. Even his ubiquitous afghani-style hat and colored glasses. Rather than proceed to the next logical progressions of the thought and wonder (A) how on earth she could possibly have missed the similitude during the interview process or (B) if perhaps C. had noticed it too, instead another, completely disparate sensation came. A warm throb which spread rapidly from the top of her head to settle in the pit of her stomach. It was deep resentment, bordering upon anger, born of the endurance of literally years of C.'s nuanced rejection. Yes, S. was certain he loved her. But it was a needy, codependent love and C. barely hid the fact that it was a love she had to re-earn on a semi-daily basis. Though she understood from whence such machinations came, enabling him had never returned her the loyalty and affection she had once been so sure would one day follow...