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Sitting at her desk, under the dimly lit lamp, night after night, she eyed her typewriter as if it were one of  her mpst feared archenemies.

She knows exactly what she must do, but it’s as if her fingers won’t allow her to type the words. Try as she might all she can come up with

“Dear John.”

She finally gets up from the typewriter to make herself a cup of tea, this should calm my nerves, she thinks to herself. Standing at the sink filling the kettle with water she sees him stumbling up the driveway toward the house.

Without thinking she runs back to her typewriter and finishes what should’ve been so long ago:

Dear John,

I can’t do this anymore. I’m leaving. Please don’t look for me.

As soon as she grabbed the sheet of paper from the typewriter and placed it on the fridge where he would surely see it as he opened the fridge for his next beer, she grabbed her already packed bag and ran out the back door. Running through the back yard the sound of the tea kettle whistling was all she heard. Concentrating only on getting away now, all of her previous apprehension and nervousness left her for good.

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