“You’re mad,” I said.

“Yes, but only because you made me that way.”

“You can’t lay that one on me.”

“Why not.”

“Because it’s just not true. Nor fair. It’s like me blaming you for the fact I smoke, or drink, or eat cheese.”

“Maybe that is my fault.”

“That’s just a ridiculous thing to say, and it only goes to substantiate what I was saying.”

“About what?” she asked.

“About the fact you’re not right, mad.”

“And you want to finish it because of that?”

“Yes,” I said evenly. “I need someone sane. And you’re not. So please… leave.”

“I won’t. I need a proper explanation first. I need a real reason for you to end it. I won’t leave until I get one,” she said laying out her terms.

“For fuck’s sake… can’t you just accept that it’s not working out for me, that I’m not happy with us?” I was getting exasperated.

“No. Don’t you love me any more?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Do I look like I’m lying?”

For the first time during this exchange, she was momentarily silenced and did not bat back with an immediate response, retort or challenge. I inhaled deeply, half hoping that I had finally got the argument won. But I was mistaken.

“You do. You just don’t know what you want. I can give you time, I can treat you really well, I can show you that we work, how good we can be, how good we are.”

“No. I know my own mind.”

“You’re just in denial.”

I exhaled deeply. This argument was as pointless as the relationship. I told her so, and tried to point out that the discussion encapsulated everything that was wrong with the situation, and therefore was, in summary, the perfect example of why I wanted it to be over, regardless of what she wanted or what she thought I wanted.

We argued into the night, until we both fell asleep, exhausted.

The following day, I went to work, fully expecting her to finally have left by the time I returned in the evening. She hadn’t. instead, she had stayed in and washed up and tidied and vacuum cleaned. This was crazy: she had never lived with me, only stopping for a couple of nights in succession. We led our separate lived, and had never discussed cohabitation. It wouldn’t have suited either of us anyway. After another couple of protracted and illogical discussions that concluded in arguments, I decided to try a different tack, and began to ignore her. I just went about my business like she wasn’t there. I checked my email, cooked and ate my tea, showered and went to bed, locking the bedroom door without me. I figured she wouldn’t be able to withstand this treatment for long. She hadn’t even brought a change of clothing with her, I reasoned, and I had confiscated her key to my residence from her bag while she had been in the toilet. The following morning, I rose as usual and went to work, again fully expecting her to have left by the time I returned in the evening. How wrong I was! I entered the house and walked through to the living room to find her on the sofa, dressed in a miniskirt and tight white vest top. Damn! She had left a change of clothing on a previous visit, in case she had occasion to stay over unplanned. This was certainly unplanned, but I knew she only had the one emergency outfit.