I posed the question on the way to lunch: “How would you feel about doing me a favor this afternoon?”
“You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend, don’t you?” Bri replied, knowing me all too well.
Of course I did. Bri was everything my ex-girlfriend wasn’t, and I wanted to show her off to my ex as I moved my things out of her house.
We had broken up in April, on Easter Sunday to be exact (Hallelujah, the Christ has risen!) and I hadn’t seen her since the day she came to collect a violin she had lent me in May. A violin, I might add, I had contemplated selling on eBay. She still had many of my possessions and I decided that I was going to get them back. She was home from college; I was home from college; it was now time for me to collect.
Bri backed out. I had to go solo. When my ex opened the door, she promptly shoved some of my CDs in my face with a smug, faux-cheerful, “Here you go.” She didn’t even say hello. I inquired about the photos of some of our best dates. She reluctantly handed me the negatives. Unfazed, I made polite chitchat. She would have none of it. Ours had been a long-distance relationship, and she claimed it was “too much work.” She seemed to be conveniently overlooking the fact that I was the frequent flyer and a platinum member of 1-800-FLOWERS.
Her coldness surprised me, although it probably shouldn’t have. She claimed that she wanted to stay friends, but as I said goodbye, I knew it would be for the last time.
But I wanted some kind of closure. My original plan involved breaking into her house, taking my belongings and setting the house ablaze. I figured tossing a cigarette in her yard was a good compromise. I called the day a success.
