It's Far Too Early For This Kind Of Thing, Submission 8 by Jay Johnson

"I won't deliver."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that: I… will… not… deliver… your expectations, I mean. It isn't that I don't want to. Nothing would make me happier than to live up to your fantasy – I want you to know that I will not, cannot deliver the construction you've built. And just so there's no confusion, I want it to be clear that nobody can deliver your expectations. It's not a deficiency in me… it's just an impossibility."

Just for a second there, just a second – something slid off her face and she looked, I don't know – flat. Like soda-pop gone stagnant in a sticky cup, abandoned on the counter. Her eyes were glassy and hollow, instead of sparkling and full. Her smile was plastic and forced instead of genuine – as if it never had nor ever would, reach her eyes.

And, I feel so much. I feel myself splintering, like a tree caught in an ice storm – sap frozen and expanding until the trunk bursts. I don't know how to handle my splintering. I am too many shards. Before a tree and now only tinder.

And, God, I loved you. I loved you so much. Too much. I don't think a person can handle that much love. I 'm not even sure a person deserves to be loved that much. I'm not sure that we fickle, oscillating, petty people deserve to be loved like that.

It's chilly and the breeze off the Pacific chases rubbish down the street. It's too early for much in the way of signs of life. There is a motor scooter parked on the street, only now revealed because your car has pulled away from blocking its view.