“Technically you weren’t really dumped” said an understanding, friend gingerly to her companion. But is there anything technical about it? Her friend was obviously lamenting someone who she wanted to spend time with, who didn’t want to spend time with her. Would a mere technicality remedy that truth? Poor thing, I thought, a little softer. I knew the iron clench of a broken heart and the tiny, indulgent delusions that can soften its blow.
Was I looking at the older version of myself? Painfully dyed blonde hair, visibly lined features, too much make-up. Too many failed relationships. Too much bloody drama.
“I just want to meet him and have a chat one last time. From a self-respect perspective.” Can you hear yourself lady? Self-respect would come from leaving well alone. But the broken heart is irrational and selfish and horribly forgiving, for all the wrong people.
She looks across the table and smiles at me. Instinctively. It's like butter, that smile. Gooey. I feel sorry for you, I think, you giving, loving darling. I am giving and loving too - also perhaps too much so for my own good. I guess we’d be good friends, you and I. We’d trade good stories over good wine, kicking our heels up and cackling like single gals on the prowl.
But. What about the day we become undesirable? Do you think about it? Does it worry you? I feel for you my friend. Sisters are doing it for themselves. While constantly worrying about the day that there will be no choice BUT to do it for themselves. Not in a liberated Sex and the City kind of way, more like a rallying, angry union worker kind of way.