Anatomy of a Heartbreak

{Nod to Jessica for the title. This is not a rewrite of her piece, it's just a different spin on the same subject.}

The stage on which we lay our scene is one you know. It stands on every corner of every street of every city. It’s the caffeine hole, the place of community and capital. Starbucks: your library, meeting place, breakfast/lunch/dinner place, study hall, living room, office, conference room, life savor, escape.

Enter the man. Too early, too anxious. He orders (grande green tea with honey) and sits at a table facing the door. He waits, fidgety.

Enter the woman. She is late, flustered, she ran. She walks over to the table, kisses him on the cheek, she is late because of the metro that broke down again you know it seems like it breaks down every time you take it it’s the third time this month and the bus of course there wasn’t one until much later so ridiculous I hate public transportation…

Her voice trails off and goes to mute. She orders (grande double non-fat latte, extra foam), waits for her drink, and sits in front of him. He doesn’t move at all. For a fleetful moment, she looks at him, she sets eyes on him, almost sees him. Then she takes a quick sip from her cup and starts talking again about her friend Amanda she can’t believe what she did oh my God she went over to Mike’s house and Alex didn’t know about it can you imagine and they probably slept together or something like that I don’t even want to know can you believe it though it’s crazy although it’s Amanda so I mean I shouldn’t really be surprised…

She hasn’t noticed how he looks at her, intensely, almost with pity. He hasn’t said a word. He would be slightly annoyed by her loudness, her condescension, her incessant babbling if he could see more clearly through his melancholy haze. She asks him a question, which he doesn’t hear, she pauses mid-sentence and asks him carelessly if everything is all right.

“No.”

The word drops like a leaden weight. She pauses mid-thought. Silence. She looks at him, then. Really looks at him. But she doesn’t dare acknowledge what she sees.

Instead, she drops an acidic comment about his bad mood. He nods gravely.

“I think we have to talk.”

She pauses mid-breath. He cringes on the inside. He hadn’t wanted it to come out so cliché, so full of baggage. He hadn’t wanted his voice to be so broken, so intent. But then, there really wasn’t any right way of doing this, was there?

It’s not too late for him to smile and laugh it off. To pretend it’s just some poor joke, to acknowledge his terrible mood, to shrug this off to later, again. But of course, he can’t carry this on for much longer, so he says nothing. The silence carries on for too long.

There they are, fourth wall down unbeknownst to them, finally seeing each other for what they are, with no idea of what they are worth. Here they are, pausing mid-life, while around them the café, the street, the whole city is just going about its business. Here they are, seeing each other for the last time.

What they say isn’t important. They won’t quite remember it afterward. Empty phrases meant to explain and excuse. They speak them quickly, awkwardly, in hushed tones meant to sooth, which only instensifies the drama they create.

He wants to make this as quick as possible, and as painless for her as he can. He tries to explain briefly the why, the how, the impossibility of going back.

She wants to end this as quickly as possible. She doesn’t quite know what to feel. Her integrity has been raped. There is a lot of anger in this. Where’s the sadness, though? She knows she should feel that. She will feel the worst of it all later.

Hushed goodbyes, no contact at all. They are miles apart already. There’s nothing to say, there’s nothing to save. She gets up quickly and exits.

He stands alone, staring blankly at his cup. He expects some kind of alleviation. Instead, he feels a pang of pain in his chest. The weight does not go away. An acute tightness takes hold of his heart.

He can’t help but be surprised and think: this wasn’t supposed to hurt.