.

It's been a month.

Well actually, it's been a little longer than that. A little longer than a month ago in Vegas, where you were drunk off your ass, the two of you wandering around talking about how pathetic the idea of getting married in Vegas was. You were drunk, high, possibly other forms of intoxicated as you made fun of the couples going in and out of the chapel in the lobby of the casino, and you wanted to prove what a scam it was. "I bet I could buy a wife," you slur your words and go wandering off to check out this sham of a place, and eventually she's running after you. They're crowded there, literally not paying attention to who is drunk, who isn't, and they're ushering people through a line -- it's not the most romantic setting and it proves your point that love and marriage and all that is not really meant for people like this. People like you. In the last two years, you have been told you were perfect, that you're hilarious, that you're loved...and then they leave. Nine times. Nine different people. You're not interested in a number ten. It's easier this way.

But they're pushing everyone through a line and you think it's a giant fucking joke when they tell you to repeat after them and you do it, she does it, and you're laughing, and they shove you off the altar towards some teenager working behind a counter. The teen is bored out of his fucking mind when he tells you to sign the papers, and while you're signing the papers, he pulls out a lot of rings to choose from. Bored Teen takes the papers and prints out a certificate that you don't even see, because you've grabbed a ring and decided to steal it and ran out, off to find the next bar, slipping the ring on your middle finger on your right hand. See? You tell her as you get to another bar, it's all a fucking joke.

Only, it wasn't a joke. And you're maybe wanted for robbery in Vegas because of the rings you guys stole, but it unfortunately was very real. And it takes a friend screaming through the shared Vegas penthouse that you got married? waving around a wedding certificate that you didn't even know existed and everything sinks in. This isn't something you can run away from, even though the desire is so strong and you've never been good at not running away. Hell, the teleporter is a fucking safety blanket, and that's all you depend on. It doesn't leave. It doesn't ask you questions. (If it did, there'd be some serious issues there, because well, it's an object.)

But it's been a month and it hasn't been a joke. IT's not a joke and it's not a laughing matter, and it's fucking terrifying. Because all the names of those you loved and left you, all the names of those you even had hope for, they're all in the back of your mind. They're all just there, waiting for you to list off. To see if she becomes "Number Ten" like you know she will eventually. Because everyone, everyone leaves. But she doesn't want a divorce. She fights you on it, tooth and nail. Even when you're kicked out of the hotel that you're staying at in Boston, and you have no where to stay, she's still trying to get to to stay with her. To live with her. But you don't, because you're a coward. What man doesn't want to live with a woman that actually cares about him? That actually wants to spend her time, and apparently her life, with him? You don't know if there are any other cowards like you, but you know you're the king of them all.

That when the sleep and the dreams happen, that you wake up and leave her because you're scared of what you'll find when she wakes up. You've been through all this before. Everything that is happening is something that has happened to you before.

You get a new place. You move in a week later, because you have no furniture and it's an easy sell. You even pay extra to make sure you can move in when you do. You buy all new furniture. You slowly start trying to build up your collection of movies and video games again. The broken, water-logged pieces of your sole companion, your robot dog, are in three different boxes, waiting for you to get your equipment back in working order. You don't know if you will. Half your furntature is just crates at this point, but you're trying to build a life up from scratch.

It's been over a month since Vegas though, and she still won't leave. She won't divorce you. She won't give up.

You're not used to that. You're used to people giving up, because everyone else has, because all your friends have, and she should just be another one of the numbers. But she hasn't.

And it bothers you. Because you want her to, because it's easier. Because you're a coward.

You (against your better judgement) ask her to move in. Not as your wife though. Even though, she technically is, and both of you are still wearing the rings. You offer her the guest bedroom, her own room, her own space. To your surprise, she accepts. And when she moves in, you're not there to help bring in everything, because you don't want to be around. And now that she's actually here, you spend most of your time hiding in your bedroom, avoiding her at all costs, only coming out when you need to eat or you know she's not around.

Because you're a coward. Your friends hate you for it. You can tell by how they talk to you, by how they react to you, and it's just easier to be a coward. But...it's also easier to give them what they want, right?

So, you stay quiet, you shut down, you hide. You talk only when spoken to, and you don't speak out of turn. You go to work, you do what you need to, and you leave. You stay in your bedroom. You try to ignore her. You try to ignore the weight of the ring on your hand and the weight that sits on your chest that you can't explain. You ignore the sleepless nights and the tossing and turning and the constant struggle against yourself. You're a war against yourself, of your head and your heart. The heart doesn't get a say, and the head is overthinking everything, as usual.

It's been a month, and it's been a struggle, and it's been the worst struggle of your life, and it's all because of your own insecurities, your own faults. That you're a coward.

It's one month down. The rest of your life to go.

Maybe before you die of old age, you'll learn what it means to man up. Until then...

...you constantly tell yourself that she, and all your friends, deserve better.