My first brush with heartbreak was not my own. I was four or five years old, maybe, and I watched my aunt as she cried over the phone. I was very young then, but she was young too, barely out of her childhood, or at least that's what everyone said. She was the youngest in a family, a large family of seven daughters, and I guess it's hard for people to think of you no longer as a child when you're the youngest of seven, especially when you are a good eight years younger than the girl who came before you, the one who almost occupied the position. It was strange, I thought, because whenever I was around they all kept telling me I was growing up so fast. Were our years going by in different ways? Time must be strange, I said to myself. I still think it is.

She sat on her bed, crying over the phone. I'm not sure, now, who she was talking to. It could have been one of her many friends. It seemed to me like she had a million of them and she was always talking to one of them on the phone. She was always talking on the phone. And when she wasn't doing that, she was  painting or watching films with Cary Grant in them.

Often she would listen to music too, but she would never just sit and listen. She always had to be standing, dancing around. Even when the music had a strange and complicated beat, she needed to be dancing around somehow. Tapping feet, swaying arms, even jumping sometimes. She always had to be moving. That's probably why she also went out a lot with her millions of friends. She was always going out, even her sisters, my older aunts, said so. She couldn't have always been going out, I thought, because I saw her reading a lot too. She read a lot of books, most of them by female authors she loved, authors who 'spoke for her', she said.

I watched her closely. Sometimes when people cry, they do that thing where they try to hold back the tears and deep sobs because they don't really want to cry. Only children cry. Or sometimes it's because they don't want other people to see them crying. My aunt didn't do that. She didn't try to hide. She didn't turn away or try to whisper when she spoke. She knew I was in her room, because she even smiled at me when she first came in and walked to the phone to make a call. Whenever I came over, I spent most of the time in her room. Sometimes we listened to music together. Sometimes I watched her paint. Sometimes she let me watch one of her favorite movies while she talked on the phone. I would catch some of the things she and her friend (whoever was on the other line) were talking about, like I could now, but when her crying got worse and her breath got too short I could only understand every other sentence she tried to say. Drove away...never mattered...couldn't find him...in trouble, she said.

And when she hung up, she did something I had never seen her do before. She sat still on her bed and cried. She didn't get up to turn on the radio or the TV. She didn't pick up the phone to make another call. She didn't move from the bed. She just cried and cried. I went to her and I must have asked what was wrong. She turned to me, still crying, and took me in her arms and gave me a kiss on the forehead. "Oh, Lizzy," she said, "you are my favorite niece." I knew this, of course. Even if she hadn't told me, I always knew. We sat together, for a while, for a few more minutes. Then she let go of me, got up and walked to her closet. She took out a bright red dress and laid it on the bed.  I had never seen her wear that dress before, but I could imagine how good she would look in it. Drying her eyes, she looked at me again and smiled, although sadly.

"Red is the real colour of mourning, sweetheart." she said, sounding like a character from those Dorothy Parker stories she told me about sometimes. And then she turned away and walked into the bathroom. From inside, I could hear her turning the shower on. She was probably going to go out later in the evening. She was always going out.

***

Weeks later, my mother received a call from one of her sisters. Their youngest, the youngest of seven, barely out of her childhood, had run away. They didn't know where she went or if she was coming back. She took all her clothes and left behind all her books and paintings and records and movies and a note that asked for their forgiveness and understanding why she left and why she didn't, why she couldn't, tell them about the baby that was soon on its way.

"You'd be surprised how many couples break up in public places." my (nosy) Sith master, Darth Platypus, tells me. "Restaurants especially. This year alone, I think I've seen five or six couples break-up over dinner."

Come to think about it, I've seen a lot of couples break up in restaurants, too. Doesn't seem like a good idea. Why on earth would you take a very private and painful crisis and have it unfold in a public place surrounded by strangers, blissfully munching on their meals? You never know who's listening and who's ready to point and whisper at the slightest hint of a spectacle. But I suppose there is something about sharing a meal that creates a false sense of security or semblance of normalcy. For many people, it's an act of intimacy. And I guess there's something about a public place that tricks you into thinking you're safe. Suddenly, your own living room feels terrible and inescapable when you're confronting someone and breaking their heart.

Another old friend confesses to having been broken up with once at a McDonald's. "It was ridiculous. I knew what was coming. He called and said, 'Yeah, we need to talk.' and asked to meet me at the McDonald's across the street. I knew what we were going to 'talk' about. I'd have to be stupid not to. But I still agreed anyway. I thought it might be better, you know? If I was surrounded by people it'd be easier to hold in whatever I was feeling. I'm not really the type to cause a scene."

"Or so I thought." she quickly adds. "I was doing okay for the first few minutes then all hell broke loose. Before I knew it I was crying and I think I was even yelling because people were looking at us. I think I even threw my fries at him before I left. Then the next  day I heard one of my neighbors say to another neighbor 'Were you there? Some couple was breaking up at the McDonald's across the street.' "

If you're planning to break up with someone in a restaurant, just be more careful. Don't sit next to Darth Platypus. He'll remember everything and tell his friends. You don't want your personal crisis becoming someone's anecdote.

The Chapter in Your Life Called San Francisco by The Lucksmiths

I realize now that I owe The Lucksmiths some fanmail.

Well, it wasn't San Francisco, but I guess that doesn't matter. It could have been anywhere. Anyway, it was a long time ago. He told me to wait and that he would be back before I even knew he was gone. And I did wait, but he didn't come back. And all I could think about was how he had gone. You've probably heard this all before. You may even know what it's like. You go through stages of thinking, when something like this happens. First you tell yourself that it's okay; any minute now, any minute, he'll be back. After a while and he isn't back yet you try to make-up excuses for him. Maybe he's really busy, maybe he has a million things to do, maybe he's staying up in a lone castle in a deserted old country where the nearest phone is a million miles away. On horseback. And then after another while, you start panicking. Oh my god, something has happened. He's broken a leg - no, both legs - and he can't walk. He fell and broke his hands and his neck and he's paralyzed. He was mugged and stabbed and they found him and brought him to the hospital, where he's just woken up and realized that you've been waiting to hear from him all this time. Then you realize that you're starting to sound like a character from a Dorothy Parker story - except even more ridiculous. And for the first time, you're just about sad and tired enough to be honest with yourself. Maybe he's not coming back. Maybe you were just never that important to him.

I wish I could say I learned my lesson, but I don't really know if there was one to learn. If there was one, it might have been lost on me. Maybe I could end by saying something like, this is why I'm not good at goodbye's, but that isn't the point either. And anyway, who is? Or maybe I could end by saying this is a story of the summer someone made me break my heart, but all I can hear, and rightly so, is a voice in my head saying "Sister, join the club."



So, tell me yours.

I woke up in the middle of the night, trying to remember the last thing we ever said to each other. I couldn't remember. Was it a rainy afternoon, over a cup of hot tea? Or was it in the evening and you called me on the phone? Or was it like this, in the wee small hours of the morning, and you left me a message on the machine? When was it that we exchanged our parting words, and what were they? Or did we have any at all?

I couldn't remember. I still don't remember now. I've wracked my head so much it's starting to hurt and things are starting to spin. And I'm afraid that if I keep trying I'll come up with something - even if it didn't really happen because even if it's made up it might still better than nothing. And I'm still afraid to find out that that's exactly what happened and that's exactly what we had: nothing.

I'm trying to so hard to remember, but I can't. Soon, I won't remember anything. I won't remember how you looked, how you kissed, how you laughed and what you found funny. I won't remember what you smelled like, what color your eyes were, and what you liked to do during lazy weekend afternoons. I won't remember your voice, and what it sounded like when you whispered and told me, on days that you meant it, that you loved me. And I won't remember how you smiled when I told you that I loved you too.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

I have lost you.

Not again, she thought, as she got up from bed. She was to face the another new day, except it was just another same old new day, and she wondered if there was any point in getting up to see it, much less getting up at least a good hour and a half ahead of it. The sun had not risen yet, but she was tired of waiting for sleep. She was tired of waiting for the sense of peace and warmth and sweetness of dreams. She'd have settled for some silence, but she couldn't even have that. Instead, there were the tears. Tears she cried night after night, but couldn't understand why.

She wiped her eyes quickly, and they felt heavy and tired. She looked at the man beside her, fast asleep, greedy with his bedsheets, and it wasn't even that cold. She was suddenly irritated. When otherwise she would have found it childish, she gave in tonight and let herself get irritated by his oblivious snoring, his one hand across his forehead, the other resting over his groin. She would have pulled the covers away from him, but she suddenly felt drained of all energy. Even of the annoyance spilling over moments ago left. All that was left was the tiredness. And the warm molten metal feel of tears that were about to come again.

She looked at him, through the tears, and wondered what had changed. I don't love you anymore, she thought, running the words through her mind and thinking of how they would sound to him, if she spoke them to him when he finally woke up to face the same old new day. Then she sounded the words out, in a whisper, and wondered if he could hear them, if they could find a way into his dreams.

She tried to think back to the start. Things have changed, haven't they?

And she wondered if I don't love you anymore meant the same as I never loved you at all.

It meant nothing, he said, his eyes reflecting the very despair and anguish he felt, as he explained to her that it was stupid and he was stupid and he didn't want anything to change. It was nothing. He held her hand and tried to get her to just look at him again, something she hadn't been able to do since. She meant nothing to me, he said once more.

And she couldn't stop thinking of the girl, the girl who meant nothing to him. Did she give him more than that one night? Did she give him a piece of her heart? Would he become one of her favorite memories? Would she think of him when she felt lonely, and needed to be warmed? Poor girl. The girl who means nothing. She wondered how could anyone do it, and why anyone makes love at all, and if it is love that we make when we grind our hips against someone else's. She didn't know what hurt her more. That he had touched somebody else, or that he knew how to touch someone without feeling the contact.

Hey, man. Yeah, sure. Of course I made it. Thanks for inviting me man. No, really. I appreciate it. You throw the best parties. Yeah, sure. A shot of vodka. Yeah. straight up. Really, man, thanks for inviting me. I wouldn't have missed this.

Well, yeah, okay. I almost did. I didn't feel like going out, but I was just sitting at home, you know, with nothing to do. It's been like that the past couple of days. I kinda feel like I've been sleepwalking through the past week. Ever get those days? Yeah. It's been quiet. Real quiet. I forgot about that, you know? How quiet it can be when you're living alone. Huh? Yeah, sure, another shot. Thanks, man.

I guess you heard about the break up, huh? Sure. You'd have to be pretty deep in a rock not to have heard. No, it's okay. Thanks for asking. I'm...Well, everyone's been great. They've been asking me if I'm okay, and really, what can I say? I guess I'm okay. I tell you though, I feel like an idiot at times. Like sometimes, I'm missing my keys and I turn around to ask her or when I think I hear the door open and I expect to see her come in. You know, stupid little things. I mean, I know she's not there. But I guess that's what two and a half years of living with someone will do to you. But sure. I'm okay. Oh, yeah, yeah. Two and a half years. That is kind of a long time, isn't it? I guess that's why everyone was so surprised. Hell, I was surprised. I still don't really know what happened. Been racking my head about it too, for the last couple of weeks, since she moved out. Yeah, sure. Another one. I just don't know. Maybe it doesn't matter now. It'd be nice to get some answers, you know? But maybe there aren't any. And I'd ask her but she hasn't really been returning my calls.

Hey, I really appreciate you inviting me. It's nice to get out and see people again. Some of the guys were stunned to see me here. It's like they thought I went missing or died or something. Yeah, sure is nice to see people again. Hey, so who else is coming? No, I'm not really waiting for anyone. I just thought, you know...everyone always turns up for your parties. I mean, everyone. I met her at one of your parties, remember? Yeah, that was a really fun party. One of the best nights ever. Huh? Yeah, sure. Another one.

Listen, man, it's getting kinda late and...Well, I guess I'm more tired than I thought. No, no, it's okay. I'm sure I can catch a cab or something. Thanks for inviting me and for letting me talk. Hey, what the hell are you doing, man? It's your party! You should be out there mingling! Have fun, you know? Help other people have fun. You're good at that. You throw the best parties. Maybe another one before I hit the road. No, it's okay. I think I ought to just go. I don't want to spoil the party or anything, so...

Huh? Oh, I don't know. If she comes by, I guess tell her hi from me. Or better yet, no, don't say anything. It might be weird or something. But if she does turn up, just let me know. Or better yet, no, never mind. She's probably not going to show up anyway. She did? What time did she say? Oh, pretty late, huh? Well, yeah, sure. She's been busy lately. She hasn't been returning my calls. But she said she was coming by, huh?

Well, okay, maybe I can stay for a few more drinks. Sure, sure. Keep them coming. Thanks, man. You throw the best parties.