She can only be pushed so far!

She paused, gazing without expression at the smoldering, unfiltered cigarette she held between her fingers, then said, "You know, the thing about love is that it suffocates." She lifted her head and nodded slowly. Her eyes fixed his with a resolute stare.

“Suffocates,” he repeated with a sneer, eyebrows raised, a dare wedded to his return gaze. “The thing about cigarettes is that they suffocate. Love or not, I would rather have you leave me than take another puff on that filthy thing. How can I reach you? How many birthdays do you think you have left, sucking that stuff into your lungs?”

“Maybe that’s what I’ll do . . .”

“What?” He stopped cutting and held the kitchen knife poised over the cake.

“Leave you.” She said it calmly.

He glared at her for a full ten seconds then hurled the knife across the dining room. It hit dangerously close to the cat and skittered into the hall, a trail of crumbs in its wake.

The cat passed the still spinning blade and rounded the bedroom doorway en route to its under-bed hideaway, calico tail wringing for balance on the polished floor.

He drew deep breath into a rage-red face. “Lately, no matter what I say, you pull away. Why is that?"

She ignored his question and followed the cat. Soon she reappeared, suitcase lid bulging, a white blouse sleeve waving. She stopped at the front door, turned to face him.

“Look at it this way, Mr. Perfection: smoke or fresh air — on my remaining birthdays I breathe it without supervision. Have a nice life.”