Table for Two by Marla Miniano

boyfriends,” Irene continues. “Tall, rugged,
muscular, looks like he could beat the crap out of your scrawny ass?”
    “Very funny,” I say. But again,
she’s right—you do seem to have a template for the guys you go for. The
night I met you, you had just broken up with a champion swimmer; the following
week, you were dating your trainer at the gym. A month after that, you were
sitting courtside at a professional basketball game, clapping and cheering and
fulfilling your girlfriend duties to the MVP . For months, I watched you flit from
one jock to the next, but none of them turned out to be strong enough to hold
you down. For months, I watched, but I never said anything about it. I
couldn’t—I wasn’t sure I had the right to. I didn’t even know if you’d
listen to me. I was just some guy you met at a party, some guy you can call at
two AM when
you’re tipsy and miserable, some guy who can pick you up when it’s raining and
you need a ride home, some guy you can fall asleep next to on the couch and
wake up the next day without any remorse whatsoever.
    Irene shakes her head. “Does this
girl have any idea how much you like her?”
    “ Liked ,” I correct her, as if the lack of the letter D were the real issue and not the use of like instead of the more accurate love. Nonetheless, I emphasize the D because I want to properly divide my
life into the past, the present, and the future, and I’m trying so hard to
categorize you as part of my past. I don’t want you to be the shadow always
hanging over my head, haunting me every time I attempt to move on. I don’t want
to hope and mope and whine and pine. I don’t want my mother to keep worrying
about me, asking unnecessary questions like, Are you awake? Are you sad? I don’t want to have to keep answering her with the
same accommodating optimism one would extend to a repetitive child: I’m trying to sleep, but
come in , or, I’m fine, Mom. I can
manage. I don’t want to be hurt,
because I am , still, and the fact
that you didn’t do it on purpose doesn’t cancel it out. I don’t want to be in love with you anymore. Because I
can deal with you being the one that got away—at least that was your
choice, your responsibility. But I won’t allow you to be the one who never left
my mind because I never tried to forget.
    Irene asks if I’m over you, and I
say, “It was a long time ago.”

2
     
     
     
    Of course, seven months isn’t a long time, but considering how you’ve only been a part of my
life for less than a year, it should be. They say the amount of time it takes
to get over someone should be one-third of the time you were together (or in
our case, “together”), which means seven months and five days exceeds the
allotted moving on period. It seemed everything unraveled at such a swift pace
for the two of us; it makes no sense that I’m picking up the pieces in slow
motion.
    If we were starring in a romantic
movie, this is how it would work: We come into each other’s lives via a
serendipitous meet-cute. You are heartbroken, I am smitten. You try to get over
your ex by dating around as I remain a constant, loyal presence in your life.
One day, you snap out of it—you’ve had enough of jerks. You’re ready to
be treated the way you should be. And then you realize, through a series of
flashbacks of the happy times we’ve spent together, that I’ve been here all
along, that the circumstances seem to have shoved us together, that you cannot
fight fate anymore. You realize that you too are in love with me. Meanwhile, I
lose hope that you will ever feel the same way and spontaneously decide to
escape by accepting a job offer in the States. You drive to the airport to stop
me. You run through traffic. You dodge security personnel. And just when I’m
about to board my flight, you call my name, and you tell me everything I’ve been
wanting to hear. (Or you burst into the waiting area too late, then turn around
to see me holding my suitcase,