James and I hop on the train and as quickly as we’ve settled into our seats, we’re at Flinders Street, the central hub in Melbourne’s CBD. From there, we walk or catch a tram to wherever we have a booking.
This time we made our way to Flinders Lane, hoping for a lunchtime bowl of pasta at Cecconi’s. The waitress found us a spot on the terrace where we ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio and creamy, melt-in-your-tastebuds lasagna.
It was a wonderful day. That was until I opened my big mouth.
“Do you know why Douglas broke up with me?”
I asked it as James was pouring out the last of the wine. I hoped the liquid courage would assist us both in this mystery.
“I thought about it last night and I can’t figure out why he broke up with me. I can’t give a reason, he didn’t give me one, and now I feel sort of lost.”
Lost was an understatement.
I wanted to get over my ex but how could I without knowing what exactly I was recovering from? It didn’t make any sense. The first stage of grieving always involves knowing what to grieve, right?
“Hun,” James began, visibly frustrated by my question, “Why do you want to know so bad? Is it going to change anything?”
I sort of shook my head. My first instinct was to agree with him.
“So if it doesn’t change anything, move on.”
I picked up my glass and swirled the liquid like I was deep in thought. I needed a moment, to comprehend James’ unfair dismissal of me.
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