I am piling shredded Christmas paper on the curb when my cell rings. We are no longer lovers; and yet you call - as always. predictable as January snows whispering of ennui and Boxing week sales. Your voice enticing me to come. 'It'll be fun', broken words garbled promise over hands-free bluetooth when your car glides to my curb silent electric full stop. Who am I to argue with faux leather heated seats and your presumption that I would acquiesce – as always. You take me to 'The Bay' seeking new linens. Leave me lingering between terrycloth towels and flannel sheets. Make me watch as you fondle, finger, and caress Egyptian cotton in floral patterns summoning memories of fertile fields wrapped in summer heat. My arms burdened beneath fresh virgin bedroom sheets, you take me to the check-out counter - 'All Sales Final.' Then whisk me back to my curb just as the garbage truck rumbles slowly past As always.