The very last conversation they had went like this probably:

K: Why are you being mean to me?

Her: I’m not being mean. I’m trying to be indifferent.

K: Trying to be indifferent? Seems like a contradiction to me.

Her: [Slams door.]

The next morning, K zipped his suitcase, folded the linens, and left. He made sure to wake before dawn so she wouldn’t hear. But he knew she was awake and listening from inside the guest bedroom, where she had taken to ensconcing herself everyday since all the bad stuff happened.

By now she had monsterized K to her friends. He could do the same, you know? But who would he tell? And who would care? And wasn’t there some kind of implicit confidentiality pact, besides?

As a final menacing gesture to prove a point that was mediocre at best, K nicked her brand new Clearasil before he left. Later, he will smother his cat o’ nine tails in it before flogging himself.

Much later he will hear–through the usual outlets–that the man she met on the internet two days after they broke up kidnapped her and demanded a handsome ransom.

K will try to be indifferent.