Golden Hour

Chapter 22

Any day that began with emailing my ex required three espressos to jump-start my brain. 

At first I'd considered showing up to get my stuff unannounced. Packing my crap and hopefully carting it away without his interference. After all, I still had keys to the old apartment. 

So screw him. 

I didn't owe him a courtesy call. Or a courtesy email. 

But was that even legal? Practical? Sensible?

Besides, it'd occurred to me The Fool might be banging his new girl on the kitchen table. Not only did I not want to witness that crazy town, but it also wasn't exactly fair to her either.

A polite heads-up would do the trick. 

___

From: Victoria Bergwald <toria.bergwald@gmail.com>
To: Thomas Bergwald <thomas.bergwald@gmail.com>
Date: Saturday, 14 March 2020, 10:25
Subject: Moving Day

Thomas,

Just to inform you, I will be moving all my things out of the apartment tomorrow on March 15. We will arrive between 14:00 and 16:00. It would be good if you could stay clear until we have left. Then we can move on with our individual lives.

Thanks,

Victoria

___

It almost resembled a business transaction. Good! I didn't want to sound like a jilted ex, a friend, or a contrite lover hoping to worm her way back into his heart. If my blunt message hadn't made it clear that I wanted nothing more to do with him, I didn't know what would. 

After I'd clicked send, I received an answer ten minutes later. Considering the message wasn't in his native language and his fingers didn't exactly fly over the keyboard, The Fool must have pounced on my email quicker than a puma.

___

From: Thomas Bergwald <thomas.bergwald@gmail.com>
To: Victoria Bergwald <toria.bergwald@gmail.com>
Date: Saturday, 14 March 2020, 10:37
Subject: Moving Day

Dear Toria,

Just to inform you, I have plans for that day. If you will want to move out, you will have to give me more time. I tell you when I have time, and you come then. Not before.

Regards,

Tom

___

What in the actual frack? 

So, let me get this straight: This major league asshat corners me in a freaking train station demanding me to take my stuff away? Then he balks when I dance to his fiddle?

Ugh, how typical!

Well, if one thing makes The Fool's backside squeeze tighter than a nun's scowl, it's money. Hit him where it hurts. 

___

From: Victoria Bergwald <toria.bergwald@gmail.com>
To: Thomas Bergwald <thomas.bergwald@gmail.com>
Date: Saturday, 14 March 2020, 10:40
Subject: Moving Day

Either you accept my terms, or you can dispose of my things at your cost. And I honestly don't give a flying rat-ass fuck what you do with it. So what's it gonna be? Huh?

I'll be there tomorrow with bells and fucking whistles or fuuuuuuuck you. 

Deal with it.