"You seem kinda angry," she says.

Wait, let me back up.

In a move I'm sure he conceptualized as utterly compassionate I'm the one who apparently gets honor of breaking the news of his departure. Odd move for a guy who was so terrified of what I would tell my friends. A man like that, wouldn't he want to tell his friends? Take the option of maligning his name away from me? But then if he told the truth he would have to deal with being the "bad guy" because it what world does he break up with me? But really it's that he doesn't have the balls to do it. And so I, because I always get the wet work, I get the dubious honor of telling those we know.

She was hoping to have a party in two weeks and invite me. She was his friend first. He'll be on the list too. It's clear he has spoken of it. As if my removal of his life isn't worthy of comment. Another insult. Although he'll find a way to make it not his fault, he didn't mean it, he didn't know, it's now what he meant. Because, you know, he's such a nice guy. When I think about how many people tried to sell him to me, well, it's funny that he left me because that isn't the natural order of things in a just world. After all those people tried so hard.

So I tell her in the fastest vaguest way possible, without any details, hiding as much as I can including my pain, my embarassment, my rage.

"You seem kinda angry."

Angry? Angry?

Angry doesn't begin to describe it. I'm heartbroken. Still. Everyday. You want to know the truth? If you have any sense you don't, but I'll tell you anyway. As much as I suffered from low self esteem in my life, as much as my body has been twisted and tortured-I always enjoyed dressing up in sexy clothes. When I was growing up in CT and couldn't get a boyfriend to save my ass even though I had a body I would kill for now, in the middle of the night I would get dressed up-full make up and sexy cocktail dress and just hang out in the house. It made me feel better. Now I dread being naked, even around myself. That drawer of sexy sli[s I used to wear to bed. Might as well put them in storage. I don't even open that drawer. Oh I'm utterly inorgasmic. Feel so unattractive I don't even try to seduce myself. Hate the way I look. Hate myself for living this long. I try and overcome it. Maybe I succeed for a few hours, but then I'm back to hating myself.

And him.

But not as much as I miss him.

I tell her it'll be fine if he comes to the party. Because I don't want to be trouble. That NE stiff upper lip. But really it's because I want to see him again. Lie as I may to everyone else that's what it is. And yet I know what will happen. If I see him again, I very well might end up drinking a drano martini because although I hope he'll have a change of heart I know what will really happen. He'll be fine and I'll be left realizing I'm breaking my heart for someone who doesn't even think of me anymore. Motherfucker. I've held my tongue for so long to protect him-looked the other way-protected him and he only ever suspected the worst. Now he doesn't even think of me at all.

So why should I bother to protect him now? Because whether I believe or not, I was born a Jew and I'm gonna die a Jew. And Jews believe you do the right thing because it's the right thing, not for credit, not for repayment, not for reward. Virtue is its own reward. He can believe he's the good guy, I get to actually be him. And telling her is just part of the price of that virtue. Am I made? Absolutely. Because no one after this better try and sell him as a nice guy, or I'll rip their lying tongues out.

Does that seem angry?


I lose my cellphone at some point in the night and go uptown to my local bar. There are only two other people in the bar; a guy and girl are on a date. They are both blonde and good looking with a limited level of intelligence. They have seen the 300. Their conversation with the bartender, who is a friend, spills over to me. And in the end the guy becomes so engrossed in my conversation I know I could cock block and seduce and steal him. He has her back to her entirely while she sits in bored silence. I wait for a break in the conversation and bring her back in. Quickly he forgets me. An hour later they are making out. They leave without saying good bye. In their future happiness will they think of me? I could have stopped it. I could have taken him, but I didn't. I put them together.

And they won't even remember me in the end.