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Get Over It

© Brenda

Three weeks after the break-up, I expected nothing less. In fact, I was quite sure that, from what I could tell by her actions, Sally couldn’t have been healthier. She was rehashing not only what he had done wrong, but admitting as well what it was that she had done to contribute to the relationship’s demise. Sporadic crying, just a hint of anger, a few what-ifs. I felt for sure that Sally was moving through the stages of loss with appropriate speed and amazing accuracy. She could have written a book about it.

I talked to Sally only three or four times in the following weeks. It was tax season and since I worked for the head of the tax department at the time, I was (needless to say) tired. And cranky. And not just a little bit frustrated. Single (aka, sans boyfriend) at the time, I didn’t even have the time, much less the energy, to put on makeup again after work, let alone date. April 15th loomed like this glorious holy grail in the distance. Just. Gotta. Make. It. Three. More. Weeks.

Whew. Spring…what better season is there unless it’s fall? New clothes, new shoes. New social life. I had missed half of it, but I was hell-bent on catching up. I checked in on Sally from time to time, but honestly, bad friend that I was, there was much more interest in taking back my life than in just about anything else. There were dates to be had, a house to be cleaned. My precious Sparky to get to know again. I worked hard for months – it was time to play hard again.

Summer rolled around. Nights out with the girls were a weekly event, sometimes more often than that. I was dating this twenty-something guy in a band (almost a requisite for the summer), flirting madly with another guy who shared my love for John Cheever, and had just met the most intriguing man around for a long time (later to become the well-known, prolifically written-about, BF). Life was good. Then I got a phone call from Sally.

It had been at least two months since I’d really talked with her. Granted, I had been busy, but I also felt guilty for not being there for her more. Still, last time I’d checked, Sally was well on her way to recovery. Or so I thought.

“It’s been five months and 23 days since we broke up. And the asshole still hasn’t called to return my CD collection of Brazilian music. He knows how much I love the bossa nova.”

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