Two policemen escort Joe, my ex-fiancé, to their vehicle with his hands cuffed behind his back. He stumbles, and his head connects with the car door as they open it.
I smirk and sip.
I still have to visit the doctor and take his report to the police station. Someone with a purpling eye, split lip, and bruises peppering their torso gawks at me in the bathroom mirror, and I glare back.
I pour the coffee down the drain. “No more Joe for me. I quit.”