Coda.

It truly was over. They were too tired to scream at each other, and besides, they ran out of hurtful things to say. They both have been stockpiling them like ammunition for the last couple of weeks, never believing they would actually get to use them, but having them on their side somehow made the whole prolonged meltdown of their relationship more palatable.

And today, over the course of the evening that started as a routine, they ended up exchanging them one by one—their disappointing sex life, his paranoid mother, her predilection for cheap alcohol, the way he snored, the way she laughed, the dog that neither of them really loved but they were both too ashamed to admit that. Even that piano that might have been the first sign that something wasn’t working, since it stood there, covered in dust, almost since the day they bought it exclaiming they will take lessons and play together.

They both used it as an argument against each other, but that was half an hour ago, and now they’ve gone through everything they prepared for this occasion. Besides, they couldn’t possibly hurt each other more. She was still in the bathroom, he was sitting there staring at the wall trying to understand what just happened, when finally it occurred to him—he was as pained by what she said to him, as he was by what he himself decided to say.

He shook his head and slowly stood up. His hat—the same hat she seemed to enjoy ridiculing so much just earlier today—was lying on the piano. He walked up to it, opened the lid, and pressed that one key, the first note of the song that made him fall in love with her all those years ago.

This was his final word. He never saw her again. He never played again.