Small things hurt the most

The mug slammed down onto the table, hot drink sloshing over the chipped rim. Its red love hearts conflicting violently with the way she was feeling at this moment. The aroma of gold blend coffee, decaf because that’s how he had to have it, filled her nostrils, and the empty bag of biscotti led crumpled and discarded on the stainless steel work surface. She couldn’t help notice, with some amount of chagrin that he hadn’t even bothered to wipe away the buttery crumbs from this morning’s toast.
She remembered when they’d first moved in together. They’d been blissfully happy that first year or so, collectively on a hunt to find the perfect lamp, carpet, or that gorgeous sofa. They’d even managed to find that only-in-your-dreams seven stacked, wood panelled, glass door storage unit (only £179.99 from IKEA.)
They’d drink proper caffeinated coffee and make breakfast together in the morning, dancing round each other and singing along to the radio, not caring if they actually knew the words or not.
Then after breakfast he’d kiss her softly on the head to say goodbye and head off for work, leaving her to do her makeup before she too had to go to her own job at the hotel.
But things were different now. He’d been acting strange for a while, and though she’d felt badly for snooping on his laptop at the time, she was glad she had. It had only been to confirm her own suspicions that he’d been seeing someone else. She just hadn’t expected it to be another man.
Of course when she’d confronted him he’d been all apologies and promises. He’d never me this guy; they’d only spoken over the net. He wasn’t gay, just curious and he still loved her and this wasn’t because he didn’t fancy her like mad. And most importantly, he would never, ever, do it again.
And for her part she began to dress sexier, in shorter, tighter dresses. And killer ‘Lady M’ heels that elongated her legs and lifted her bum – all the celebrities swore by them. She even went to the salon to get her hair cut and highlighted. But even after all her hard work, and all of his ardent reassurances, he barely noticed the change in her.
It was about that time that they’d switched coffees. Suddenly he was more interested in the Times than he was furniture catalogues, and instead of dancing, he’d shamble past her at breakfast, mumbling to himself at how clichéd the radio presenter was. And he stopped kissing her goodbye. That was the most unbearable thing of all.
So this morning she’d wore that hugging pencil skirt and ruffled blouse which she was forever getting compliments for when she wore it. She’d bought new Mary -Jane shoes to match the grey silk scarf she wore around her neck. The side parted hair and pillar-box red lipstick finished the outfit to make her look fabulous.
She’d strutted downstairs and sashayed past him at the table, throwing him her best smouldering look over her shoulder as she passed. The bastard didn’t even look up. She’d had to ask for him to give her a non committal response. Then as if he couldn’t stand to be in the room with her, he’d said goodbye and left early for work.
A single tear touched salt to her lips, but she didn’t brush it away. It was okay to cry, to mourn. Who had they been trying to kid all this time?
He liked decaf.