Here I sit, in my smallish open cubicle, trying extremely hard to be as adult about this whole thing as humanly possible. I know that across the aisle is my friend Alberto, who gave you a shirt when we all went to Limerock together on that vacation. I know that behind him is Abby, who is still friends with your roommate, who knew about all our problems and who I never should have trusted as a friend. I also know that down at the end of the row, she sits. She is younger than I am, with her pearl necklace and earrings, the perfect example of what a New England woman should be. She is lovely, so much in fact that I liked her quite well, that is until yesterday.
I am not the ideal of a woman for you, and it was made abundantly clear to me over the almost four years we dated. I am southern, I was born into a family with no money, and I am an emotionally intelligent woman. I still know you better than anyone else on the planet. I introduced you to art and architecture, took you to lectures, and encouraged your more sensitive side. I stood by you, through the cancer, through your temper tantrums, through your dropout, through all the bad things that happened over those years. I watched you open your apartment door and throw my things into the exterior hallway, and I stood out in the cold, face stinging with new tears when you wouldn’t unlock the car and let me in for a reason you wouldn’t tell me. I endured months of being ignored by you, of being yelled at and berated over the phone, of being left by myself in your ever changing apartments, to be called upon to play the perfect hostess in front of your colleagues and school chums. I watched the spark fade from my eyes and my once shining demeanor become dulled by your influence. I watched as every promise you made to me failed to come true, over and over again. I took you back, over and over when you begged me to with renewed fervor, only to see it die out after a few weeks.
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