It’s been seven or eight months
since she broke up
with you, and since I saw you last. We had coffee together, you and I, and tried to make sense of her latest craziness.
Did she say anything to you? Tell you why she was doing this? you asked, tearing a napkin into a million little pieces and staring into your cup.
I shrugged. I’m sorry, I don’t know why. I’m just so sorry.
You’d been with her for four and a half years, and we’d grown close. She'd hated sport, and rap music, and was allergic to onion, so we’d watch football, go tenpin bowling, listen to bad rap, and eat French onion dip.
She’ll get over it. She always does, you know her.
But this time’s different – I think she really means it. She doesn’t want to be around me anymore.
Don’t be silly. You know what she’s like when she’s like this - she’ll be embarrassed tomorrow when she realises what she said. It’ll be all right.
That was the script.
And that’s what I told you the day before we knew she meant it, the day before you left. How were we to know she meant it that one last time?
So I still love her, and you, but I haven’t seen you since forever ago, and no-one knows how you are, or even where you are. I know it’d be hard for you to hang around the old gang – too many memories of her and the days when things were crap but you were holding out hope that they’d get better – but maybe we could just catch up, fill in all the missed days.
I just want to say hey, how's it going, you want to get a beer?
But her break up with you was your break up with me. I just hope you’re okay, and wonder if you remember our French onion days.