It was the last fucking straw.
Happy birthday, babe, he says, handing her a scrunched-up paper bag.
She takes it, reluctantly.
It wasn't her birthday.
Her birthday was last week (as he knows because they had a big fight).
Perhaps he is trying, she thinks. Maybe he has thought about the argument. Reflected on what she said.
About how he doesn't pay attention to what she said.
About her life.
She hadn't tried to keep her birthday quiet, after all.
Do you want to come round on Thursday, she'd said. It's my birthday. The girls want to take me out, but I'd rather spend time with you.
Of course, babe, he'd said.
When he hadn't turned up, at first, she was worried: perhaps he'd had an accident.
When he eventually replied to her calls and texts, he'd just said: Opps FORGOT! see you next week.
She opens the bag and pulls out a tin can.
A Can Full of Kisses, it reads.
A receipt from the gas station up the road falls out, too.
He'd bought it five minutes ago.
He hadn't thought about her at all.
...
