Broken Hearts Club

The thing about broken hearts is this: you never know when it's going to happen. Because if you knew, you would take every precaution to stop it from happening--to suspend the action in mid-air like a movie. But this isn't Hollywood.

I am current sitting at a bar patio in a dismal suburb, listening to the traffic on the busy county road and the desperately emotional 90's music blaring, sipping tepid Chardonnay. I am waiting for you with a pit in my stomach, My mind racing.  Wondering if you would call it over. Wondering if you would hug me when you came in. Wondering if you would notice my carefully selected outfit, makeup, and perfume. Wondering. 

Three days ago, we were happy. Two nights ago, we cussed each other out like sailors and hung up on one another. We have barely spoken since. This meeting, arranged under strained terms with strained voices, is full of questions and--I hope--maybe even a promise of healing. 

I find myself wondering about who I am: stupidly optimistic, or just a glutton for punishment? What parts of our fight were mine to own, and what were yours? I know I'm the person who always says I'm sorry first...is that a flaw or a beauty mark?

While I think, my eye strays and I spy a nearby couple, hands intertwined, praying over their food. As quick as I am the scoff at them and figuratively roll my eyes, I mentally apologize and turn my attention to appreciate their graceful tie. She's blonde--as everyone in this Scandinavian-American outpost is--and he sports an olive-drab tshirt, the kind available in any department store across the country. There is nothing remarkable about them physically, but their bond is unmistakeable: they're the couple that will grow old together. I watch him sip his amber-colored brew and smile at her over the top of his glass, his adoration for her apparent. I smile in spite of myself. 

I don't know what you'll say when you come in here. But I believe in love like that.