Why the hell did I break up with Francesca? It was a mistake, I know that now. What was I thinking?
I take another sip of black, bitter coffee and ignore the biscotti sitting on a plate. I'm sitting in the middle of the coffee shop, not my usual spot. Our usual spot. Francesca and I would always sit on the sofa over by the window, sipping coffee and sharing biscotti and telling funny stories about each other's families, or books or movies or stupid little things that people in love talk about.
She never comes to the coffee shop anymore. She's on a track that will never cross mine again. It's enraging to think that she's out there right now, somewhere without me, so instead I'm staring at the sofa by the window and trying to backtrack. There had to be a single turning point from growing closer to growing apart. A comment made, noticing an annoying habit in the other, something that showed the first signs of dissatisfaction. I keep thinking I can find that moment and change it.
I sound like someone who was broken up with, but no...I did the breaking. That's what makes it worse. Maybe it would have been acceptable if something really fucked up had happened, like she had slept with my brother or I had stolen a thousand dollars from her savings account, but the truth of the matter was that I got bored. I started to wonder what life would be like single again.
Is this my answer? Miserably drinking cold coffee and ghosting the places we used to spend time together, trying to relive those mornings when I believed myself to be so miserable?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment