Seven

It was really infuriating.
Ann went through her box of tupperwear one more time. Piled, perfectly nestling, she pulled them apart, matched them up. Yep. no doubt about it, one missing lid.

Motherfucker. She had packed every box carefully, gone through every drawer. She had made sure to leave absolutely nothing at Max's. She had taken her spices, even flour, she had taken any spoons, forks, even used yogurt containers. She had ripped apart music collections, she had gone through photos, artwork. Anything she, on any level, might have brought to the table was in a box, somewhere, in this room. Except one damn lid. Asshole.

She had felt no reservation and little guilt gutting the house of everything conceivable imagined as hers. Max had shown little appreciation for what she had owned and as far as she was concerned he had no right to it. Leaving behind only his dusty, old, barely antiqued furniture, a couple of rusted pots and pans and a refrigerator filled with about 75 condiments she slammed that door.

Renting out an apartment in the busiest, hippest, noisiest part of town, overpaying for this sleek and modern loft she had felt a certain righteous glee. She had gone to Ikea. IKEA! Max would have lost his mind! She bought mid century modern knock offs, left and right. Cubed, sleek tables and couches and chairs with hidden compartments and convenient design. She even bought artwork there, which artwork she had always, secretly, sort of appreciated, and hung it on the walls proudly.

Fuck Max.

And fuck Helena too. She honestly couldn't believe it.
She an Helena had been friends. True, not close friends, but friends, nonetheless. She had hosted Helena, bought her gifts, went out of her way to cook meals and show up at parties so Max's best friend's fucking wife would not feel left out.
And this.

She didn't think they were having sex. She didn't even know if she cared. She had, quite frankly, always expected Max might cheat on her. He was just such a lech. He loved women in an almost fawning fetishistic way. Not just their bodies, their breasts and legs and feet. But he loved their clothing and their shoes and their hats and noticed when they cut their hair.

It initially had charmed her, when he appreciated a purse she had or was even more turned on because she had chosen the right shoes. But it quickly became infuriating when he'd notice her torn jeans or wonder: are you really going to wear those pants with that sweater? Are you really wearing pants? Tonight of all nights.

You'd almost think he was gay. But he most certainly.was.not. gay. He just...loved women.
He flirted. Shamelessly. Charmingly. All the women giggled and allowed it. He leered and danced close with other women. And although she had felt mostly secure in that he did it so publicly, she also had wondered, from time to time, if he would one day stray, one day go to far. She had anticipated it, even, had speeches and even compromises ready. After all, he wasn't the only one a libido, the only one who noticed.

But he didn't have female friends. Not close ones. Sure, there were wives and girlfriends, and sure, they had conversations, but they weren't close. He wasn't sexist, per se, just disinterested.

Until this shit with Helena. She had always known, on some level, he liked her just a little too much. He would quote something she said, or take one of her damn know it all intellectual platitudes just a little too much to heart. But it wasn't until they started hanging out, until he started actually listening and talking and laughing with Helena she truly understood how little Max had listened and talked and laughed and, honestly, respected her.

And then there was that damn book. She had recommended that book to him about 5 times and then, so convinced that it was a book he would love, she had, for some birthday, gone out and found a wonderful bound version and planted it below his pillow. And he was thrilled! Couldn't wait to read it, just after he was done with the book he was reading and then the other one on his list and he didn't want to bring such a nice book on vacation and then. Well, then, 3 years later she could picture just where that book was on the shelf when she walked in and found him reading it. Only he wasn't reading it, he was reading some paperback dog eared moisture damaged version.

When she noted the book he was excited. Beyond excited. He started to go on about this and that and how Helena had told him he would really love this one part she had underlined and how had he never thought to read this book?
Already crying she had yanked the beautiful, hardbound copy she had bought him and noted, tightly "I can't imagine when it has been right here, the whole time" and ran out.

That was the first time she had left. And, of course, he had apologized and been so sad and promised to do better and to appreciate her more. But, of course, he really didn't. And so here she sat, in her wonderful modern clean apartment with a box full of tupperware and a missing lid.

She was in the middle of composing an angry email, stunned once again at the disposable way he had treated all of her belonging and making it clear how little she thought of this, when she heard a plaintiff meow from the cat.

Looking down she noticed the cat slowly licking something off the very tupperwear top she had just been searching for.

She promptly burst into tears.