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“BETTE.” That’s a lot of volume from him. And the other diners are now all up in our business. “Even now, as I break up with you, I’m not your focus. You owe me something.”

I take a big gulp. Why must I always have to make it ok to break up with me? I’d tell him the truth, but no one believes me. Hell, I got married to run from the truth. The ex-husband got married for the fun of it. A few months in we both realized our life was a joke. He’s happy now while I still labor under a heartache that feels fresh. In my attempt to become someone else, free of my past completely, I kept the ex’s last name. It felt right.

“YOU’RE DOING IT AGAIN. You’re looking through me. I’m right here, Bette.”

I thought Paul would be a better break up, I’m a little disappointed in him. He’s pounding on his chest and the whole thing really is inconvenient.

I slurp some wine and purse my lips. “Paul. I’m sorry. Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough when I said I never had my heart to give. I gave it away a long time ago. Was totally serious about that. It was not a challenge but a fact.” It sounds like a line but it’s true.

His eyes bug out of his head. But I’m giving him a peg to hang the breakup on. Blame me, dude. I do.

“Bette, look at me, please.” His tone has shifted to concern and I’m instantly annoyed he’s treating me like a victim. I’d like him to stay ‘angry breakup’ Paul. That was easier. “Are you going to be ok?”

“About this?” I gesture between us. “Yeah. I’ll get through it.” I fake sentiment.

“Are you really jaded? You hid it well.”

“I don’t hate the idea of love, I’m just unable to feel it.” And look at that, I’m honest with him.

“But will you be ok?”

I don’t hesitate. “I don’t think so, but what’re you gonna do?”

“You should get some closure, that will help,” he says, as if he’s trying to solve me. So long, Paul with the pleasant apartment and regular guys night out.

I drain the Syrah and lie, “I enjoyed the sex quite a bit.” His foreplay was better than his missionary.

“Call me if you ever need to talk.”

“Like a ‘let’s still be friends’ thing?” Poor delusional Chicken Paul. He’s sweet and always takes out the garbage.

He says, “We were only ever friends with benefits.” He’s only slightly wrong; we were acquaintances with benefits. After being dropped by the love of my life and losing my best friend to cancer, I keep my circle pretty tight. Sorry, Paul, my dance card is full up on friends. I have the one and that’s all I can handle.

I place whatever cash I have on the table and walk away. I think I’m walking away with some dignity, but then Paul calls after me and I turn slightly to see him.

“This is eleven dollars in ones and a parking ticket. And this is a dry-cleaning receipt.” I contemplate snagging the receipt back; they’re sticklers about claiming with the ticket. The restaurant is staring. It’s ok. I didn’t love that skirt.

I reach my hand towards him and say in a dramatic fashion, “Take it. I’ve given you everything I have. Seriously, it’s all I have.” I hustle to the sidewalk, down another boyfriend and no closer to finding love—again.

Goodbye Paul. I’ll miss having something to do. It’s only nine.

On my way home E/R A texts to announce that our pitch is dog food. Arco Dog Food wants a slick rebrand of its one-hundred-year-old product. I’ll go home, drink more wine and try to think like a dog. At least it’s something to do. Work is always there for me.

* * *

I pull on a headband to get my long bangs out of my face. My hair is so straight it just sticks up in the air when I do this. It’s cut into a long shaggy bob, so headbands don’t work so well. But who cares? It’s not like I have anywhere to go. I have to get a new Chicken Paul. The thought of finding someone who zaps my nervous system and zings my heart and brain is a bit too much to ask for. I just want to go to dinner.

I sit in the cozy big brown chair in the corner. It’s hideous, but it was my dad’s. It was in his office on the Stanford campus for years and it’s where he wrote his dissertation. He used to take me to work when I was little, and I’d read and write in this chair. It’s my best memory of him. When he died four years ago, it’s the only thing I wanted of his.

I’m writing copy by hand with a sharpened pencil. It’s a crisp new one and I think that matters when you need a crisp new idea. I sip my white hot chocolate. Most people find it repulsive, but the first sip of each cup takes me back there for a split second. I needed to feel connected with Paris for a moment tonight. Most days, you can keep Paris. It’s full of too much old bullshit. But then there are days like this when I need to revisit the good, the flood of happiness, even for a whisper of a moment.

This week was awful. Asshole Hayden retaliated by telling everyone what I did and therefore appeared superior. Then the fucker changed all the fonts in my documents and in all correspondence online to Comic Sans 14pt type. I’m locked out of changes. I constantly look like I’m inviting people to an eight-year-old’s birthday party in 1997. And as much as I hate him, it’s really funny.

I inhale the scent of my drink and try to wash Assface away. I have plans for him, but for now, I need to focus on dog food. Dog food and how much I love it. I don’t know dogs. We always had cats and now I’m panicking a little I’ll lose my dream job because my mother is allergic. It’s not my fault we didn’t have a schnauzer.

“I don’t know dogs, but Arco does. Don’t worry, Arco has your back. We put the time in, so you don’t have to. We have a hundred years of history at your disposal.” No, don’t say disposal. “We have a hundred years of experience at your back. We got you. We take away the worry.” It’s right there on the tip of my tongue. I’ll work it out. I need to beat him.

HAYDEN