The Reason We Can't Have Nice Things
by Katina French
I've been thinking things over since our argument, and I finally recognize the problem in our relationship. The problem is me. I know you've tried to deny it, tried hard to make things work, but it's time we admitted it's over.
It's not that I don't appreciate or recognize your efforts. When the yeti broke out of his pen and totaled your Miata, I think you handled it with remarkable restraint. The time the dragon got loose from the cellar and left the deck and patio set a smoldering pile of ashes? You were the one who suggested we look into recouping some of our losses through the manufacturer's "flame retardant guarantee." It's your practical, down-to-earth attitude I'll miss most.
You've handled everything with admirable grace, and I'm grateful for it. You've always understood my work comes first, because lives are at stake. If I'm not there to capture a loose djinni or talk some sense into an adolescent troll with raging hormones, who will be? How many people were gored the week we went to Cancun together, and a herd of Minotaurs trampled through Chicago?