The Average
He kept a list nobody else knew about.
Not written down. Just carried, the way certain men carry things — every failed attempt catalogued somewhere behind his eyes, replayed on nights when nothing else was happening.
The woman who left after four months.
The one before her, six weeks.
The one he never even got the number from, standing at the end of the bar working up nerve that ran out before his mouth did.
He called it a pattern.
Said it out loud to anyone who'd let him — I'm just bad at this. Like a man reciting a diagnosis he'd written himself.
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