THE SWEET SHRUB INN

CHAPTER 1: THE NON-ANNIVERSARY

Friday, July 26

I am not going to cry in the bathroom stall of this romantic Italian restaurant.  I am not going to cry.  I will not do it.  I am better than that.  So, really, there is no need to cry.

I look down at my red heels resting on the tiny blue and white tile of the bathroom floor and feel stupid for buying them for this particular occasion.  I bought expensive heels and a dress I don't even think is my color so that I could come here, order Zuppa di Mare, take a few bites and get dumped.  He didn't even wait until I was halfway finished with my food before he started his clearly rehearsed speech.

I will not focus on the fact that I am a twenty-four-year-old woman who has just been dumped by her boyfriend of one year.

Wait.  Wait. No.   Correction. Not dumped.  I wasn't flat out dumped exactly.  I was simply informed that he thought we needed space, which, ok yes, is essentially the same as being dumped despite what I or any other desperate female want to believe. 

Space.  Space?  Oh my God!  Are people still using that line?  Well, yeah.  Apparently so.  I am not a clingy girlfriend.  Really, I'm not.  And we had space, around 700 miles of it before he moved to this city---this city where I was living first!  My city! So we closed the space between us and now he needs some distance? Or no, excuse me, space.

God.  How did I not see this coming?  Or did I and I just ignored it?  I'm training to be a therapist for Christ's sake!  So either I didn't have a clue it was coming, which makes me an idiot or I did know it was coming and chose to ignore it, which makes me, well, an idiot.  Which is worse?  Actually, right now, I'm honestly not sure.

I open the stall door and take a peek before stepping out completely as if someone is going to see me and instantly know that I'm the poor pitiful woman who just got dumped. Luckily, the bathroom is empty. 

How long have I been in here?  Not more than ten minutes, surely.  Not that it matters.  He can sit at the table by himself for the next year of his life for all I care.

Don't get me wrong. It's not like I thought he was going to propose marriage or anything.  This is our first anniversary, sure, but it's not like I've been waiting for a ring all this time.  We're both practical people with demanding careers, and we've only lived in the same city for the last five months of our relationship. We have our own places, and we only sleepover once a week or so.  But things were perfectly fine, weren't they?  We weren't arguing. The sex was ok. And neither of us pressures the other one for more. It's actually a very mature setup.  Or, so I thought.

I stare at myself in the mirror.  My curly brown hair is pulled back into a loose bun and I did a stellar job with my makeup tonight.   The dress is also pretty effin' hot. It's not the type of dress you wear to get dumped on your anniversary.  That dress would be frumpy and dark gray with a turtleneck and flats.

My hazel eyes are staring back at me, all accusatory and disappointed.  "How did you not see this coming?"

An instrumental version of "O Solo Mio" plays over the restroom loudspeaker, and I wish that there was an exit from the restroom straight to the street outside, so I didn't have to go back in there.

I can hear the noisy evening restaurant chatter and activity as soon as I slowly open the bathroom door.  I see the back of his head as he looks down at the watch I bought him as a birthday present this year. He'd been talking about that watch for months. He absolutely had to have that watch.  It has 300 meters of water resistance, but he's never even gone scuba diving.

He stands as I return to the table, catching his napkin as it falls from his lap. 

"Cora," he says my name almost apologetically while I take my seat once more.  I picture myself splashing my wine in his face like on a soap opera before calling him a bastard or something equally as dramatic.