In my less than ideal scenario but fantasy nonetheless, I smash the windows and slash the tyres of his car. That would be satisfying I think. Immature but satisfying.
I know women who bake dog shit into cakes for him, stir his toothbrush round and round the toilet bowl and sabotage his career a-la-"Addicted to Love" or "The First Wives Club".
But in reality, I'm likely to stay around and to let him pummel me. Either I walk around and act like an open, desperate wound or I retreat so far into myself that I am unrecognisable. Our love like all gifts is our Achilles' heel.
But the car destruction sounds good :)
That's the liberty of art, the ability to play God, to orchestrate fate and to exact just deserts and in so doing present a point, a reason for showing the world otherwise.
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