At twenty three, I’ve had two big heartbreaks in my life. The first? She left me for her ex-boyfriend, the way most of them did, but before that, she held on to me for months. I never really figured out why she wouldn’t just let me go. I was only twenty at the time, all legs and high-school t-shirts I hadn’t had the heart to throw away yet. There were other girls I could have been whispering to, other late-night cafeteria food I could have been trying to add to my ribs while I talked to anyone else, anyone with something new to say. I’m sure she had plenty of people she’d have rather shared dinner and kisses and fights with too, but I guess she just got used to the feel of my mouth instead of someone else’s.
The other? We clung to each other for years before I finally worked up the courage to snip through the spider webs of memory we’d spun around each other. Part of me still wonders if she cried when I did it. Yes. Two big heartbreaks: once mine, once hers.
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