The 99th Stand-Up

Today was supposed to be the 99th time Sabrina and I were scheduled to register our marriage. It was also the 99th time she stood me up.

My phone buzzed.

A message from Colin, Sabrina's male student.

A photo.

A selfie taken in bed—Sabrina fast asleep, looking vulnerable in her thin nightwear, while Colin, shirtless, held her intimately from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder as he smirked triumphantly at the camera.

Then came the text:

[Vincent, stop trying to tie Sabrina down with marriage. I mean more to her than you ever will. Honestly, she doesn't want to go to the courthouse. If you really love her, let her go. She's made up ninety-nine excuses already—why can't you take a hint?]

In that moment, all I felt was a strange, dead silence.

I turned off the screen, stuffed the phone back into my pocket, and watched Sabrina step out of her car.

She walked up the steps, her brow furrowed.

She started in on me immediately. "Colin just had a complete meltdown because he couldn't get the color right. If that painting is ruined, it's on you."

"Sabrina," I said, glancing at the courthouse's closed doors, "today was registration day."

"I know," she cut me off impatiently. "It's just a piece of paper. We'll do it next time."

I looked at the woman I'd loved for seven years.

"The courthouse is closed," I said, a heavy, cold realization settling in my chest. "There might not be a 'next time.'"

She paused, and the tension in her shoulders visibly eased.

"Oh, well. Next time, then," she said with a dismissive wave. "Nothing we can do about it now. I'm heading back. Colin's waiting for me to help mix his paints. He's really upset and needs me."

With that, she turned and left.

Not even a word of comfort.

I watched her car disappear around the corner, and for the first time, it hit me clearly: maybe I didn't need to waste my life on her.

...

Back at the apartment, I found Sabrina had brought Colin over for a painting lesson.

The strong smell of industrial-grade turpentine hit me like a wall, and I nearly choked on the spot.

I have severe asthma and am highly allergic to turpentine.

Back when I used to support Sabrina's creative process, I'd even wear a respirator to help her clean her brushes.

But now, the living room had turned into a gas chamber.

And Sabrina had promised countless times to upgrade the ventilation system—she'd long since forgotten.

My violent coughing seemed to startle Colin, and his brush clattered to the floor.

When Sabrina heard the commotion, her first reaction wasn't to check on me—it was to comfort a shaken Colin.

"Vincent, can you keep it down?"

She snapped without even turning around, her voice thick with annoyance: "This painting is at a critical stage! Colin just found his flow!"

"I... can't breathe..." I forced the words out.

My throat felt like it was swelling shut, burning like I'd swallowed broken glass.

Lack of oxygen made the veins on my forehead bulge, and cold sweat instantly beaded and dripped from my jaw.

The edges of my vision began to blacken. I gripped the doorframe, my knuckles turning white, just to keep from collapsing.

Sabrina finally glanced back at me.

There was no panic in her eyes—only disgust.

"Stop being so dramatic, Vincent."

She said coldly, "It's just a little turpentine. Don't make a scene."

Sabrina always said she had a bad memory—that she couldn't remember how deathly allergic I was to turpentine, even though I'd coughed myself half to death in front of her countless times.

I used to think it was just part of her eccentric artist persona—how she didn't care about anything outside her work.

But when it came to Colin, her memory worked just fine.

She remembered his favorite "cobalt blue" had to be air-shipped from Germany. She always ordered three tubes in advance, worried he wouldn't be able to mix the exact shade he wanted.

Turns out her memory was selective.

I turned and fled the gas chamber.

I called my best friend, Sam, to take me to the hospital.

On the way, Sam slammed the steering wheel, venting for me.

"What kind of person does that? Goddammit! Vincent, if you forgive her after this, I'll shake some sense into you myself!"

I leaned back in the passenger seat, breathing through a portable oxygen tank.

At a red light, I looked out the window and saw two people in an ice cream shop.

It was Sabrina and Colin. They must've slipped out at some point.

Colin was holding an ice cream cone, smiling as he brought it to Sabrina's lips.

Sabrina was a serious germaphobe.

For seven years, she rarely even kissed me. She'd told me over and over, disgusted: "Swapping saliva is for animals. I don't like sticky, messy intimacy. Vincent, respect my boundaries."

So I respected her. I maintained our relationship like a monk.

But now, that "germaphobe genius," the woman who claimed to hate intimacy, tilted her head without hesitation and took a bite of the ice cream from Colin's hand.

My throat tightened. My heart felt like it was being torn apart.

I lowered my eyes, perfectly calm, pulled my phone from my suit pocket, and texted Sabrina: [We're done.]

The next morning.

Sabrina woke up and reached out instinctively for what was on her nightstand.

For the past seven years, I'd always left a prepared glass of milk there for her.

This time, her hand met empty air.

"Vincent?" she called.

No answer.

She sat up impatiently and walked into her studio, trying to settle her mind through painting.

She went to her palette to mix the signature color of her acclaimed work—"Sabrina Red."

But as she started blending the paints, she realized in horror that she couldn't get the perfect red, no matter what she tried.

Only then did it dawn on her that all these years, I had been the one mixing it for her.

Panic turned to anger.

Sabrina threw her brush on the floor.

She grabbed her phone and called me. "Vincent, are you done yet? Stop with this childish running away and come back here. I need you to mix my paints."