I saw her. I was coming back from a crappy date in Greenpoint. It was a morose affair with a dull girl at a nothing restaurant. The drinks were un-inspired, the food was bland, and the conversation rote. I was bemoaning my dating woes when a 5 foot 4 brunette wandered into my eye line. She was down the platform, distractedly checking her phone and standing next to a tall, blonde, beard.
My breath caught in my throat. Was she standing with him or near him? I slid forward hiding behind a set of stairs and peeking out. I couldn’t believe she was there. Millions of people in this gigantic city and somehow I wound up on the same platform at the same time as the girl who ripped my heart out a year ago. I typically avoided Brooklyn like the plague for this exact reason, knowing the true odds of running into her were incredibly low, but also knowing the cruel universe odds of running into her were extremely high.
She’d cut her hair short, back to the length it was when we’d first met. Seeing her again flashed me back to that night. I was sitting on a barstool waiting for a playoff game to start. I heard the door open, turned in my seat, and the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen walked in. I’d had a few cold ones already so my inhibitions were smoothed. I waited five seconds, turned, and walked right over to her.
I love that sweatshirt. Are you excited for the game? Have you been here before? Me and my friend are sitting right over there, do you want a drink? The bartender loves us so we get quick service. Yeah come stand over here. We’re doing shots for every touchdown do you want one? Of course your friend can come, hi I’m Chris it’s great to me you!
Three hours later we were drunk on a corner kissing each other and going back to my apartment. At 3 am we finally fell asleep. Four months later at midnight on a rooftop overlooking the Empire State Building I told her I loved her. I met her parents, she met mine. We went on vacations, to weddings, we discussed moving in, we put it off, we were trapped in our separate apartments with the entire world distanced, we fought, we made love, we grew close, then apart. A million tiny memories, inside jokes, and intimate moments were built in the four years we were together.
Then, on a cold, blustery October night I broke her heart. And two months later, just after Christmas, we exchanged presents and she walked out of my life. I tried to be an adult and respect her choice. Then I got drunk and texted her mean, hurtful things, because she was mean and hurt me. At least that’s what I told myself. She stopped answering texts. She blocked me on social media. She cut me out of her life like an infected organ from her body. It hurt — still hurts — to this day.
And now, here she was on a train platform waiting for the L into Manhattan with some random guy. I peeked around the pole again, she was off of her phone, looking around, then talking to the beard. Fuck. They were too far away for me to hear, but I saw her smiling up at him, then he put his arm around her and pulled her close. Her eyes shut, a contented smile on her face.
My stomach roiled and an intense pain shot through my chest. You can say all the right things, “I hope she’s happy, I hope she finds someone that treats her well. I hope she can move on,” and you don’t mean a single one of them. Unless you’ve already found someone, are incredibly happy, and have moved on. Instead, I’d just come from the fifth (or was it fifteenth?) terrible date in a row. Was in a two-month dry spell. Had just had Covid over Christmas. Spent the anniversary of our breakup on my couch with a bottle of wine listening to my wallow playlist and using every inch of willpower not to text her.
I had no idea what her life was like now. Hadn’t seen any pictures of a new guy. And now, after seeing beard, I realized what a blessing that’d been. How ignorance truly was bliss, because now I’d have this stupid asshole’s face plastered in my mind forever. My imagination ran wild. Her at his families house for Christmas, her having the best sex of her life, her in Ibiza swimming in an infinity pool drinking champagne because of course he was fucking rich. Probably in finance. The prick.
The train came, I stayed on the platform and watched them get on. I was rooted to the spot, already heartbroken from the one act play. I caught the next train, went to my local bar, and processed things the only way I know how. Incredibly poorly. I had guinness, I had well whiskey side cars, and I kept imagining them in different incredible scenarios.
In my drunken state it didn’t occur to me to think of all the horrible situations they could have been in. He was horrible in bed and she thought of me every time. They’d fought over who’s parents house they’d go to for Christmas and finally settled on his, except his mom hated her because she wasn’t Tess, who had been beautiful and charming with an impressive job. They’d had whisper fights the entire night and Christmas was ruined. He’d lost millions of dollars for his clients when the market crashed and he’d been stressed, drinking too much, and ignoring her. Falling asleep every night passed out in a drunken haze leaving her sad, lonely, and unsatisfied. This didn’t occur to me at the time, of course, but it’s helping now.
Instead, I went home and cried myself to sleep imagining them at French Laundry having the night of their lives, coming home and making love, and sleeping blissfully in each others arms. Knowledge is a dangerous fucking thing.