Natalie Vs. Prince

I'm actually quite pleased with my plan as I walk into my apartment.

But when I look around my apartment, I freeze.

That's odd, there's shit all over the place.

I mean, I know it's not like I've been ransacked. It's just I see a travel bag of Natalie's that's on the dining table.

I see her iHome that she brought over to charge her phone and play music unplugged.

What the fuck is going on?

"Hello?" I ask as I walk through the apartment.

Probably for the first time ever, I kick myself for having such a big place to live in New York City.

You're going to think I'm a fucking asshole for telling you I literally hate myself for having six bedrooms right about now.

I find her though in the Master Bedroom.

She's carrying a handful of her clothes from the walk-in closet that I cleared out for her and dumping them on my bed.

"What the fuck is going on?" I ask. She seems so intent on getting her clothes out that she gives a start when I speak.

"What are you doing, babe?" I ask her again.

She's silent. She's not even looking me in the eyes.

"Natalie?" I ask.

This shit is starting to seem kind of fucking mental. I take a couple tentative steps toward her and raise a hand to caress her cheek.

It's like I pushed a trigger or something.

"Don't you fucking touch me, you asshole!" she shrieks, taking a step back.

Almost as if forgetting me and going back to what she was doing, she walks into the closet and emerges in a few seconds with more blouses and dresses. She brings these to the bed and hastily stuffs them into a duffel bag.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I ask. "Besides creasing your fucking dresses. That dry cleaning bill isn't going to be cheap."

She looks at me with eyes smoldering with fire.

"Don't worry, I'd rather pay any dry cleaning bill than take up any more of your precious time or lead you astray, Your Highness," she says with a cold edge to her voice.

Something is definitely not right here.

"What are you so upset about?" I ask her, looking around. "And why the fuck does it look like you're moving your shit out?"

Natalie looks at me like she's about to laugh through some tears.

"Are you fucking serious?" she asks me. "After everything we went through and everything we did you're wondering why today I'm moving my shit out? And yes, I'm getting everything out of here. I won't be troubling you anymore."

But that can't be why, can it?

Was it her birthday?

Was it our anniversary?

"Listen, babe," I say, trying to figure what the most expedient thing will be to say. "I'm sorry."