Saturday's Storyteller: "And thus did it come to an end. Not the end, mind you, but an end nevertheless."

by Belinda Roddie

And thus did it come to an end. Not the end, mind you, but an end nevertheless.

She packed two suitcases and left everything else to me. She didn't have much - materially, I mean. Some clothes that were too small for me. Jewelry she no longer wore. A couple of picture frames that had once held photos of us. The suitcases she took were actually mine; I had purchased them for a family trip to France back when I had graduated from college. But I never traveled, so I figured I wouldn't suffer much from it.

She told me I could keep the bed and couch and desk - she wasn't interested in paying for movers to take the furniture, or a van she could have driven herself. The books stayed, too, and the cooking appliances. She did take the last bottle of wine we had, though; I let that slide.

Here's the thing: When I say "an end," rather than "the end," it's because she still wanted to see me. She just didn't want to live with me anymore, or commit to me. She had felt trapped in the relationship we had, and my attempt to solidify it had pushed her away. She was interested in going to Italy and finding a short-term romance in Rome. Or maybe backpacking in Ireland and seeing how many pints of Guinness she could drink. But she said she'd still come over once in a while - for dinner, maybe. Or a movie. Or a "snuggle," as she has always liked to call it.

We both knew what a real "snuggle" was.

And honestly, I went with it for a time. I had never been the emotional type; I saw what we had as cozy and comfortable, so in truth, I mostly felt culture shock rather than anger or sorrow when she moved out. It was as if I had been told I needed to live in a new town on the other side of the country; I ended up adjusting to the changes. And she did, too. For a time.

She doesn't actually visit me that often. The end isn't here yet - she'll still invite herself over with a pack of beer, or send me a Christmas card, or call my mom just to say hello. She still keeps a picture of me with the sunset in my hair from about six years back. It's a grainy photo - my hair looks more orange than red, and my smile almost looks like someone smudged dirt across my face. But she likes it too much to get rid of it. It was the first thing she packed. It's a token of our adventure, I guess.

She's a part of my life, no matter what I do or who I date. She may not frequently come around, but when she does, there's a coziness to it. A warmth. We'll see if a new end is on the horizon.

And if it turns out to be the end after all.

This week's prompt was provided by Kyle Oathout.