So this is what I think happened.

It's not that I'm lazy. I'm more high-strung than anything. It's more the fact that...well...

I GOT THE PROMOTION.

To sum up, I essentially feel like the Einstein of accounting right now. It's definitely not laziness. It's that I've been working like crazy. So much so that I haven't had time for a single date for the past month and a half.

Here's a summary of the primarily un-notable events of my life:

(1) Summer is most definitely here. No chance of snow for the next several months.
(2) I've read The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand, and Mark has spent the past several weeks trying to convince me that I'm a Libertarian. I'm starting to believe him.
(3) I went to see Knocked Up at River East Theatres downtown after work one night. WITH JAY. I'll elaborate on that shortly.
(4) I drank three glasses of wine tonight and am feeling, what I like to call, cheerfully tipsy at the moment (which I plan to exploit as the excuse for any incoherency you note in this post). I really like the Savignon Blanc I've been drinking. Maybe I'll become a wino.

There. The biggest problem with documenting your life in a diary is the fact that it mostly just highlights how very mundane life is. Life is spreadsheets and multi-vitamins. Not martinis and sex.

In regards to (3). That's right. Jay and I have moved beyond the mere co-commuter relationship. The week before last we were making idle morning chatter on the el and our conversation veered off towards the cinema. And we both said that we wanted to see Knocked Up. And then he suggested that we go after work one night. And then we did. And I totally thought IT WAS A DATE. And it turns out it wasn't because when we went out for drinks afterward, he casually mentioned his girlfriend.

And I casually tried to pretend as if I'd always known he'd had a girlfriend (who's a doctor in the process of doing her residency by the way), and was aware of the fact that our movie outing WASN'T A DATE. And to be honest. I think that I felt intense relief more than anything. Mostly because I really do want to take a shot at not dating for awhile. Self-inflicted celibacy is so en vogue right now.

Also, I think Jay and I could really become good friends without all of the romantic confusion that goes along with dating. I think he's funny.

I’m not entirely certain about how the interview went. On the one hand, the questions were all of the difficult to answer variety (e.g. – describe a time you failed, etc.), but I think I did an alright job with my answers. After I was finished meeting with all of the various interviewers, though, I felt exhausted and vaguely traumatized. And the traumatization physically manifested itself in the form of armpit sweat. Gross. I know. I’m generally not a sweaty person, but I got to experience the treat of being one for the rest of that afternoon.

The HR representative said that I should hear back from them one way or the other by the end of this week. I’m trying not to think about it too much in case I get my hopes up, discover that I failed, subsequently feel crushed and spiral into a terrible depression. Or maybe just feel sorry for myself. So my plan of approach is to maintain a fatalistic mindset in regards to the entire situation.

Which means, enough mulling for me for now.

At least until I find out. And possibly during moments of weakness throughout the next few days.

I ran into Jay again this morning. (You recall my red-headed co-commuter.) He finally introduced himself.

It went like this.

Me standing outside of the Wellington station fumbling frantically through my bag to find my el pass. Right as I victoriously locate it in the depths guarded by my laptop, I heard someone say hello.

I glanced up to see who it was, despite the fact that I already knew.

“How was your weekend?” he asked as we trudged up the stairs.

“Good. Yours?”

“Fun. I went to the Cubs game yesterday.”

“Hey – I was there. I mean. Not in the stadium, but at a bar across the street. I was hanging out with some friend’s in the beer garden at Murphy’s.”

“The weather was awesome, wasn’t it?”

“It was. You got a little sunburned,” I pointed out.

He touched his nose, “I know. It looks a lot better than it did yesterday, too.”

The train came, and he followed me into the front car.

We both leaned against the Plexiglas partitions that surround the two sides of the door. Across from each other. We were quiet for a few minutes, and I gazed to my left out the window at the blurred trees and parks and buildings that reside along the tracks between my stop and the Fullerton station.

“I’m Jay by the way,” he suddenly said.

I looked at him.

“Elizabeth.”

I reached out to shake, and he laughed at me before extending his arm to grasp my hand in his own.

“You seem like you’re in a good mood today,” he pointed out.

“I am.”

“Me too.”

We were both quiet for several more seconds. This time I was trying to think of something to say.

“Where do you work?” I asked.

He said the name of a law firm.

“So you’re an attorney then?” I pointed out inanely.

“Yeah.”

“How do you like it?”

“It’s pretty boring.”

I laughed.

“How about you?”

“I’m an accountant.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s pretty boring,” I shrugged, “but I’m the sort of person that enjoys really boring things.”

“I know what you mean.”

We were quiet again as we crossed the River on our approach to the Loop, and our respective destinations. I got off at Washington, and smiled my goodbye.

As I exited, I heard him tell me that he would see me tomorrow.

Which is part of the reason why, in the midst of my walk across the few blocks between the station and the office, it dawned on me that my Monday had gotten off to a good start.

Dear god. I’m so excited. I just got a call from HR telling me that I got an interview for that promotion I applied for and they want to schedule it as soon as possible. Preferably for TOMORROW. I’ve got to figure out what the actual description is of the skills listed as requirements for the new role, so that I can make sure I brag about the right things.

I’ve officially decided. (Judge figuratively lowers his gavel.) I’m taking some time off from dating. Let's say three months.

I went out with Dave the Pharmaceutical Salesman last Friday as planned. He was nice, and the date wasn’t terrible.

“No really. It was okay,” I said to my sister on the phone later that evening.

“‘Okay’ in the dating world is just as bad as awful. Either way you've wasted your time.”

“I didn’t waste my time,” I interrupted, “It was good practice, and the conversation wasn’t awkward or anything. The restaurant was fantastic.”

“Where’d you guys go again?”

“Republic. It’s that new sushi place downtown that’s owned by those people that own Rise and Shine.”

“So what was bad about it. Was he ugly?”

“Be nice, Edith Ann.”

“I hate it when you call me that.”

“That’s your name.”

“I go by Edie. So then. He was ugly?”

“Not at all. He had really nice blue eyes. And I liked the way he was built. He was imposing in a way that made you feel kind of safe, but not in the over the top body builder sort of way. Do you know what I mean?”

“No,” she responded dismissively, “So what was wrong?”

I mulled this over for several seconds.

“He kind of seemed…”

“Seemed, what?”

“I guess he seemed kind of self-centered.”

“In what way?”

“Well. We ordered a bottle of champagne at the beginning of dinner because that’s what the waiter suggested. Then halfway through the meal, Dan suddenly decided we should order a bottle of sake.”

I paused to take a sip of the mint tea I’d just poured into a coffee mug and burned the roof of my mouth.

“Okay,” Edie said encouragingly.

“So I told him that I’d only really tried sake once, and I hadn’t liked it at the time.”

“I was there. You thought it tasted like vodka mixed with cigarette ashes.”

“It was nasty,” I agreed, “But I said that I’d be willing to try it again. So the waiter gave us a few suggestions that were of the lighter/fruitier variety of sake’s because he thought I would like those better than the stronger flavored ones.”

“Okay.”

“Well. Dan insisted that we get a bottle of the stronger flavored one.”

“That’s kind of rude.”

“I thought so too. Then when the check came. I picked it up and offered to pay for dinner…and he let me.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“It’s not that I have a problem with buying dinner,” I interrupted, “I mean I know that the guy always paying for the first date is an outdated tradition, and that I probably make just as much money as he does, but after the whole sake thing. It just kind of seemed...rude. And he didn’t even argue for a second. He just let me pay. And, again, I didn’t mind paying, but I kind of did. Do you know what I mean?”

“Who picked the restaurant?”

“He did.”

“He should've paid. My rule is – if you pick the restaurant, you pay for dinner.”

“I don’t know,” I rambled, “is there some sort of dating etiquette guide out there that I could refer to? Maybe if he’d just argued a little.”

“I think he should have insisted on paying for the dinner.”

We chatted idly about family stuff for a few minutes longer before getting off the phone. That Saturday, I felt really tired so I didn’t go out. In fact, I lazed around and watched Saturday Night Live for the first time in like six years.

***
This weekend I went out to dinner with these two women that live next door. They’re both single, and we went to a dive Mexican restaurant down the street. We stayed for a long time after we were finished eating and drank from what seemed like a bottomless pitcher of margarita. Then our waitress insisted we all do shots of tequila. It was a lot of fun, and we all kept asking each other why we hadn’t hung out before.

Maybe I should take a break from dating.

I just got back from grabbing a sandwich at the Potbelly’s down on Madison with Mark. During a pause in the midst of our idle chatter, Mark suddenly asked.

“Is that Kelly chick still married to that one guy?”

I swallowed wrong, started coughing and had to take a prolonged sip of banana milkshake to clear the debris from my throat so that I could speak.

“You mean Ray? Of course. They just got married like eight months ago.”

“She’s hot.”

I shrugged and answered nonchalantly, “I agree. She’s gorgeous.”

“I like her boobs.”

“They’re nice,” I said then took another oversized bite of my italian sub.

We both chewed for several seconds in contemplative silence. I assume that Mark was busy thinking about Kelly’s boobs.

“What are you up to this weekend? Wanna go out for drinks after work tonight?” he finally asked tossing the rejected end piece of his turkey sub down into the red plastic basket.

“Where at?”

“What do you mean where at? You’ve still gotta ask where? The place. The place we’ve established as THE place we always meet for after work happy hours.”

“We’ve only gone there once.”

“I thought we all agreed that it’s the place we’ve been searching for.”

“I don’t know why we’re arguing,” I responded in a faux-weary voice, “I can’t go anyways. I have a date tonight.”

Mark picked up my bag of chips and demanded, “With who?”

“Dave the Pharmaceutical Salesman.”

“Should I know who that is?”

“He’s this friend of a friend at work. It’s a blind date.”

“That sounds terrible.”

I smiled.

“We should go out on Saturday,” I offered, “I think my sister and her friends are going to Hye Bar. We could get a big group together.”

“You could invite Kelly.”

I considered this.

“It’s weird, but things have been awkward between me and her since Jim and I broke up.”

Mark rolled his eyes.

“Girls are so bad at being friends.”

“That’s true,” I mused, “just like men are so bad about being pedophiles.”

“That isn’t an apt comparison.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re talking about a very small subset of men, which means you can’t classify that as a gender stereotype.”

“So you’re saying that women are predominantly bad at being friends.”

“Not predominantly. The entire female population. I think it might have something to do with hormones.”

“You’re an idiot,” I retorted.

Mark reached over the table and picked up my milkshake. He shook the cup’s base back and forth to determine whether or not there was any left and then took a sip.

“You should invite Kelly out to Hye Bar on Saturday,” he reiterated, “I like her boobs.”

Three things.

One. I still haven’t heard back from human resources about whether or not I’m going to get an interview for that Finance Manager position. I submitted my resume on Monday. I wonder how long it will take.

Two. I agreed to go out with Dave the Pharmaceutical Salesman tomorrow night. We’re going to meet for drinks at an, as of yet, undetermined wine bar. We spoke for a little bit on the phone last night, and he seems nice.

Three. I’m ignoring Jim’s calls. He’s called four times since last Thursday. Kelly says that he’s been hanging out at her and Ray’s place a lot during the week.

This morning as I approached the entrance of the Wellington El station, the guy handing out the Redeye newspaper asked me if I’d buy him a coffee. My wallet was buried somewhere in the depths of my commuter bag, and I fumbled around for several of my carefully timed commuting seconds trying to locate it. Right as I was handing the guy a dollar, the brown line rumbled past over my head.

I’d missed my freaking train.

In my little world (populated by me and composed primarily of a four mile radius where I reside as the center of culture, intellect, celebrity and general awesomeness), this instance alone disproved all existing theories related to karmic realignment. I was going to be fifteen minutes late for my morning meeting.

I was contemplating all of this bitterly as I trudged up the stairs, when I suddenly heard someone cheerfully utilize my newest nickname.

“What’s up ponytail girl?”

I turned around to see that the red-headed guy from the other day was walking up the stairs behind me.

And then I tripped.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. If anything, it was more of a stumble than an actual fall, because I managed to catch myself by grabbing hold of the handrail.

“Whoa. You okay?” he asked.

His tone implied that he was concerned, but when I glanced up I noted that he was sporting an amused expression. This whole situation wasn’t helping my (already ill) humor.

“How are you?” I asked to change the subject.

“I’m good.”

He had given up all pretenses of polite worry and was now grinning directly down at me. He looked like he was about to start laughing. When we reached the platform, I waved goodbye and walked away to lean against the railing at the southernmost end. Then I pretended to be really absorbed in reading the Redeye, which is funny since the Redeye reads like it was written by a staff of pop-culture enthused sixth graders. The articles bemuse me. I usually only get it for the Sudoku puzzle.

***

In the elevator this morning at work, some woman told me she’d heard it might snow this weekend.

Now. I get it that Chicago weather during the spring months is -- at its very best -- erratic, but snow?! That’s so disheartening after the temperate weekend/beginning-of-the-week weather we’d been enjoying.

In addition to being appalled by this, I was twenty (not fifteen) minutes late for my meeting because I had to run by the Walgreens in the building next door to purchase a new pair of pantyhose to replace the pair that I was wearing. The earlier stumble on the stairs had resulted in a run that began at my knee and extended up the center of my thigh in a highly unaesthetic manner.

Wait a second. I just thought of something. How come people refer to pantyhose as a pair? A pair implies two separate, but identical (sometimes in a mirror-image sense) pieces. A ‘pair of pantyhose’ is comprised of one continuous piece of fabric shaped into a shrunken looking mock-up of the lower half of your body. I wonder why we utilize the term ‘pair’ as a descriptor. I also wonder if I’ll ever start worrying about important things instead of items that relate strictly to the minutiae of my life.

Yesterday morning when I got to the office, I had two emails waiting in my inbox. The first was my coworker from real-estate – you know, the one that wants to set me up on a blind date – wondering if this weekend would be good for me to meet (what she likes to call) my soul mate.

My soul mate's name is Dave, and he’s in Pharmaceutical Sales. And he’s tall, but not weird tall (per her). Just tall.

I haven’t garnered an adequate amount of enthusiasm to respond yet.

The second email was from my boss suggesting that I apply for a new manager position that’s just been created in Finance (I currently work in Accounting). This really perked me up, because the promotion would be a significant upgrade from my current not-entirely-thankless, but somewhat drudge-resplendent role. I responded back immediately to thank him and then spent the rest of my day putting together a resume. If I get this job, I think I might finally be able to buy a place.

For much of last night and this morning, I’ve daydreamt about living in a chic, industrial loft abundant with furniture by Mies van der Rohe on Printer’s Row with floor to ceiling windows overlooking a rainily* incandescent, Chicago cityscape. I’m going to pretend for the moment that affordable, cookie-cutter condos in Wrigleyville don’t exist. I'm also going to pretend like I know where exactly in the South Loop Printer's Row might be.

*I decided that if I'm going to use run-on sentences, I might as well start making up words too.

I’ve had season two of The Wire out from Netflix, waiting to be enjoyed for the past two months. I was saving it for when Jim and I both had some mutual free time. (Watching The Wire together was one of our many ‘things’.) Actually, at one point during a lull in the fighting part of the breakup, we did sit down and watch the first episode of season two while eating pizza from Gino’s East and making amiable small talk. I guess we needed a break from the breaking-up. At work today, I realized that I might as well go on and watch it.

So that’s how I decided to spend my Friday night. I got home from work. Ordered some Thai takeout from Sweet Tamarind, and watched The Wire until around two in the morning.

On my way home from work, Kelly called and offered to come over in case I felt like I needed to be with someone. Kelly and Ray were my and Jim’s go-to-couple on weekends. As I spoke with Kelly, I wondered for a moment if Ray had called Jim to ask the same thing. I wondered if Jim had taken him up on the offer, and if they were at that very moment on their way to a seedy strip club in Hammond. Then I decided that maybe it’s best not to contemplate those sorts of things.

It was nice of her to call, but I felt like being lazy and not wearing a bra and eating directly out of takeout containers rather than on actual plates and possibly even using my shirt as a napkin. Those are the sorts of maneuvers best reserved for moments when you’re in a semi-darkened room alone. It also turned out that I wanted to drink three-quarters of the bottle of Sofia Champagne that’s been sitting in my fridge since New Year’s.

If Kelly had come over, she would have just wanted me to share.

On Saturday, I got up at an earliesh hour and went for a run. And then took a prolonged nap. And then realized upon waking up that I literally had nothing to do. The cleaning lady had come during the day on Friday so everything was meticulous – except for the takeout mess I’d left next to the sofa. The fridge was stocked with the groceries I’d gotten and ignored since Thursday. I wasn’t really in the mood to watch TV.

I entertained myself with video games for an hour on the new Xbox that Jim had convinced me to purchase by insisting that I needed it for the hi-def DVD player. As I sat there punching the buttons on the game controller, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn’t spoken to another human being for almost twenty hours.

I picked up my cell phone and called my sister.

“Hello?”

“Hey. What’re you doing?”

“Working. What’re you doing?”

“Playing Ms. Pacman.”

“How are you feeling? Are you okay?”

“I’m alright…Are you going out tonight?”

“No. I’m supposed to go see a movie with Dan.”

“Which one?”

“Blades of Glory.”

“I’ve heard that’s good.”

“Me too.”

“Well, I’m gonna run.”

“I’ll call you later.”

After hanging up, I realized that I didn’t really have any single friends anymore. At least not ones that I hung out with any sort of regularity. Most of my friends are either married, dating or engaged. I sat on the couch for a few minutes watching the flickering, muted TV screen. Trying to think of something to do.

That’s when it suddenly dawned on me that I did have one single friend.

Good friend from college, Mark. And, even better, not a friend that I share with, or know through, Jim. Mark and I were in the same major together and always seemed to be in the same classes. And he dated my sophomore year college roommate for about six months. Mark and I never go out together on weekends, but we email back and forth all the time at work. And meet up for lunch at least two or three times a week.

I called him.

“Mark here. Go,” he answered in a clipped tone.

I rolled my eyes.

“You’re so lame. It’s Elizabeth.”

“What’s up?”

“Not much.”

“Oh.”

“What about you?”

“I’m getting ready to watch all three episodes of the original Star Wars trilogy. I’ve tivoed them all. It’s going to be awesome.”

“Interesting.”

“Have you ever watched them all in a row?”

“No.”

“Do you want to come over?”

I kind of did.

We got off the phone, and I grabbed a sweater and headed outside. Mark lives a mile and a half away so I decided to walk. Once there, we both settled on opposite ends of his low slung, bacheloresque, micro-fiber sofa and he started the first movie. As we were finishing up the ‘In a galaxy far, far away’ jazz, he abruptly sat up and hit pause.

“You want some wine?”

“Yes,” I said.

“What do you think best compliments Star Wars? White? Red? Pinot Noir? Burgundy?”

“I think Pinot Noirs and Burgundies might be the same thing.”

“Really?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t a Burgundy just a Pinot Noir from France?”

“I don’t know,” he said shrugging.

“Let’s do the Burgundy,” I suggested, “I’ve heard that Burgundies go well with ewok.”

“The ewoks don’t show up until Return of the Jedi. That’s why girls always like that one the best – because they think the ewoks are cute. That’s about four hours away. We’ll probably be done with the bottle by then.”

“Well...then let’s do the Pinot Noir.”

He considered this momentarily before opening the wine and pouring it into two minimalist style juice glasses. A little over six hours later, I was drunkenly confirming to Mark that Return of the Jedi was indeed my favorite of the three.

“It’s not just because I’m a girl,” I clarified, “I think that probably plot wise it’s the be-”

I was interrupted by the ringing of my phone.

Jim.

I pressed the ignore button and glanced back up to continue.

Mark was busy checking his own phone messages, and when he finished said, “Wanna go out?”

“Sure,” I answered standing up and stretching, “I really need to brush my teeth, though.”

We met some of his friends at a bar on Halsted called Landmark, and, half an hour in, I noted that I was the only female in the group. The wine had erased any proclivities I possess towards shyness, so it didn’t really matter. And they were all really nice. And clearly there to meet girls. I tried to be a good wingman, but, in addition to suppressing my shyness, the wine had mitigated my ability to formulate legible sentences.

The next morning, I woke to the sound of my phone vibrating across my night stand and the bright afternoon sun streaming in across my forehead. And as my thoughts took their time schlepping into focus, it dawned on me that I was lying in the nude under the chenille throw blanket I usually keep on my sofa. I never, ever sleep naked. My comforter was on the floor next to my bed.

I picked up the phone and blearily registered that it was Mark’s name on the caller id. We chatted about the funny things that happened last night, and, I suppose, technically that morning. He sounded chipper and alert.

“What are you doing right now?” I asked.

“Working.”

“On a Sunday?”

“I’m really important.”

“Ugh,” I responded hoarsely, “I have to go now and die.”

“Alright. Smell you later.”

“You too.”

I stood up and tried to stretch. Pinpoint lasers of pain were busily ripping through my head, and I briefly wondered if that’s how it feels when your brain cells die off en mass. Or when you’re about to have an aneurism. Last night’s jeans and other articles were arranged in a trail from the front door of my apartment to my bedroom in a way that would have made Hansel and Gretel exceedingly jealous.

After a shower and some breakfast, I felt rejuvenated until I noticed that it was one o’clock on Sunday afternoon, and I couldn’t think of anything to do. I got up with a sigh to put on my jogging shoes, but stopped when I realized it'd started to rain.

Last night during an after work happy hour at Boss Bar (also known as the classiest bar of all time), I must have mentioned in passing that I was newly single. I was at least three beers in so I’m not sure that I said it outright, but somehow the message was conveyed. This woman from real-estate whom I’ve only met a few times seized upon this fact, and asked if she could set me up with someone.

My initial reaction was to say ‘No’. Shouldn’t I be mourning Jim for a few months so that I can express the appropriate amount of sadness and wistful contemplation or something?

Instead, I hesitated awkwardly for several seconds before rambling something like, “Yeah…no…that’d be great.”

My co-worker seemed thrilled about the prospect of setting someone up. I wasn't particularly excited about the blind date, but I have to admit that her enthusiasm (and possibly the beer consumption) made me feel a little twinge of goofy optimism myself.

I guarantee you it’ll be awkward.

***

This morning, I was standing at the Wellington El stop sleepily waiting for a brown line train to rumble down the tracks and pick me up for work. After several minutes a purple line lurched into the station, and a sloppy, middle-aged man exited one of the cars. We briefly met eyes and for some reason he veered away from the exiting throng of yuppies and walked over to me. He stopped and held out his hand in a gesture that implied he wanted to shake.

“Hiya ponytail girl,” he said off-puttingly.

“Uh. Hello,” I responded and shook his hand in a stunned sort of manner.

He left, and somebody near me started laughing. I turned to see if it was someone I knew. It wasn't. It was some tall, red-headed guy. He was kind of cute so I smiled up at him and shrugged.

“You know that guy?” he asked.

“No.”

He laughed again so I smiled again.

“It’s weird,” I said, “that he would nickname me ponytail girl, since I’m not actually wearing my hair in a ponytail to begin with.”

He nodded, “Agreed. You must be one of those people.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know. A crazy magnet. You attract attention from crazy people.”

“That’s totally not true,” I lied.

We both smiled, and I leaned forward to gaze northwards up the track for lack of anything better to do. If the brown line didn’t come soon, I was going to be running even later than usual. I finally saw the lights of the train pulling into the Belmont station a few blocks north.

“The train’s coming,” I said inanely.

“You work in the Loop?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yup.”

We didn’t say anything else, and the train arrived a minute later so I walked away from him to get in the first car. The train was completely packed. I suppose mostly because of the endless El renovations that are sadly just getting started, and the otherwise careless ineptitude of the CTA. Not that I'm bitter in regards to the state of our public transportation system. I spent the next twenty minutes pressed between strangers as we hurtled down the track on our way to staff those tall sky-scrapers jutting up in measured intervals from the Loop.

We’re breaking up because he cheated. At least that’s what I’m telling all of our mutual friends. And our mothers. It’s correct from the standpoint that he did cheat while we were still technically together. Two weeks into the breaking-up process, though, I’m starting to wonder if that incident was truly the catalyst or if instead it was something more along the lines of boredom or inherent incompatibility. Or being young.

I haven’t really cried. I mean in the uncontrollable heaving, thrashing, sobbing sense. I’ve definitely teared up a little, but just for a minute. And, I'm sad, but I think it’s more about the fear of losing the friendship that went along with relationship. Being friends is something we’ve always been good at. Also, I really got along with his family.

So. Like I said. The breakup is two weeks old, and, based on my impartial observations of other doomed relationships, could take months to settle into something tolerably mundane. Or possibly forever. Or maybe this is it. We’ve never really been a dramatic sort of couple. But I think the primary part (the part that takes up all of your time – the talking, analyzing, 'denialing', not-quite-letting-go part). The annoying part. Is over. He came over on Monday to pick up the last of his things. I’d folded them all neatly into a tattered grocery bag from Whole Foods -- including a filthy, mismatched pair of athletic socks.

We chatted politely for a few minutes, and he helped me carry in the boxes of groceries that Peapod had left on my back deck next to the door. When we were finished, I escorted him outside.

The thing that sucks about a moment like that is you never know what the parting words should be. Ideally (or at least the movies have taught us) it should be something profound. ‘Goodbye’ is fine for every other applicable occasion (past or future), but for this instance it was painfully wrong. I considered ‘see you later’, but that seemed too optimistic. I didn’t want him to feel optimistic. Our relationship may have been over long before the cheating began, but we hadn’t admitted it out loud yet. And. Whether he's realized it or not, my pride's been wounded and is insisting upon some sort of recompense.

The fact that he could casually throw away five years for what I’m assuming amounted to fifteen minutes…revise that…seven minutes (he’d been drinking) of sex with some girl who’s arms are so disproportionately short for her body that people refer to her as T-rex is appalling. I know that I should direct my anger at him because he’s the person that actually did the betraying, but, on another pettier level, I don’t really like her much now either. Before two weeks ago, I was indifferent, but now I truly dislike her. Allison. Allison's a stupid name. What bothers me the most is that she knows who I am, and is aware of the fact that Jim and I have been together for the past five years.

And I told him that it was over because I couldn’t and wouldn’t ever tolerate cheating in a relationship. And now. Two weeks past the event horizon, I have to wonder if cheating was really the problem. If it was, shouldn’t I be sad/angry instead of sad/relieved?

I finally thought of a decent alternative for goodbye.

“Take care of yourself.”

“Are we still friends?”

I shrugged.

He seemed dissatisfied, and then I went back inside because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.