The Ending

You broke up with me just outside of the train station. If you've got to be dumped in person, that's a good place--symbolic. Trains drop people off and move on without them, streaming through the tunnel into San Francisco like fat silver eels. All the same, I would rather open a devastating text than cry to your face.

The station is in a sterile part of Oakland, blocks away from any culture. But I could hear the echo of people getting off on life, loud and melodious. It was First Friday, and the party kids were revving up for a weekend street fair--"Art & Soul Festival" or something like that. Down the road a little, the evening was a mishmash of human celebration, everybody selling drugs and hobnobbing through art galleries, beer of different calibers being the ubiquitous element, from cheap 40s to $10 microbrews.

I was waiting for you to arrive, so I didn't move toward the liveliness. Dodging in the other direction, I found a quiet concrete bench where I could sit and read, thumbing through the Kindle app on my phone. This was a corporate installation, backed by a rectangular semblance of a garden. I was surprised by the cleanliness of the station surroundings, and the brand-name anonymity of the chain stores. Black-suited security personnel hung around, looking slightly bored. I sank into my book. But soon you were approaching. My phone dinged and showed me your message: "Coming up the escalator now."

I walked to you and found you and kissed you, enthusiastic. I put my hands on your ribs, noticing as ever that you emanated masculine warmth and your own familiar fragrance, and I kissed you on the mouth. The prickle of your mustache nudged my upper lip like always. I said, "Hi! I think we need to head toward 9th Street," and I motioned to start walking. We had a reservation for 6:45 at a neo-Italian bistro that got good reviews online.

You said, "No, I don't think I want to. We need to go somewhere we can talk." And then you took my hand, wrapping yours around it rather than entwining our fingers. Once again I noticed the heat of you, and I paused.

I must have widened my eyes like a cartoon caricature. "What's wrong? Can you give me the summary?"

You said it quietly, almost sheepishly. "I want to break up with you."

I should have dropped your hand.

This was a surprise to me. We had a date planned for that night. I had bought the movie tickets ahead of time. We were going to that nice-sounding restaurant, and then we were going to see Guardians of the Galaxy, which you had suggested. Furthermore, I was excited about the weekend getaway that we were planning for late September, in Los Angeles. I thought everything was going well. I felt sure I was in love with you.

You took me to the quiet area where I had been sitting and reading before. You chose a different bench, and even the air was strange; my earlier anticipatory mood had been dispersed entirely. There was a staircase to traverse, downward, and our clasped hands were severed. When you reached for me again I snapped, "You want to break up but you want to hold hands?"

"That's not okay?" Should I have comforted you? I flinched at the idea of it.

You told me that you didn't think of me as the just-for-now girl, the until-someone-better-turns-up girl, but then you negated those assurances. "I want to date other people." Here is the part that you didn't say: "Sonya, you are not good enough. You are not enough in any way. I am not satisfied with you."

You began to thank me for things, and your face was wet too. I did not look at you; I stared resolutely at the ground. I could see your tears because you pressed them into your fingers; my peripheral vision captured this. Your voice was rough and reluctant to come out. You said, "Thank you for putting up with me. Thank you for helping me to grow." You even mentioned specifics, things that were almost humorous, things that were tender, and I wanted to scream. I pinched my face between my hands, squeezing the tear ducts and the bridge of my nose. You began to say consoling things: "You will be okay. You will find another boy," and I wanted to kill you. I could imagine myself crushing the palm of my hand into your face, saying vicious things, but my muscles were as sluggish as a dream.

I told you, "Just… please stop talking for a minute."