A Creature of Habit

I knew she didn't want to meet me. Which was fine, I wish she had just told me that. Not put on that smile, not told me that oh, of course, she'd love to, just in a few weeks when things calm down a bit. A few weeks where she can get her stories straight, know what to emphasize, how to look, what to wear, so that I know she's doing OK. I know she's doing OK. I assume she would be. I had no doubt. I never doubted her. Maybe I'd say that.

We meet at a coffee shop, a place by her, not our old usual one. I'd picked it out. I wanted her to be able to leave, book it, rush home, not waste too much time, if indeed that's what this turned out to be. I wasn't sure whether to show up early, if maybe she'd already be there, if maybe she'd let me wait extra long just because. So I showed up on time, which I thought a novelty, and she was in line. I said hi, she said hi back, and we shared a truly terrible sideways hug.

She started to say a drink and paused. She was changing her order, I was sure of it. Got something I bet she'd never had. That's a profound effect to have on someone, to alter the way they take in caffeine. People are particular about their coffee like they are their hair, clothes, it is a part of them. I got a large dark roast, creature of habit that I am.

We sat by the window, each sipping immediately, thinking of something to say, how to start this conversation. We could've said anything, it didn't matter, it didn't have to be this difficult, it never did. We were just two people, kids really, figuring it out, still figuring, still trying to get through life hurting as few people as possible.

I'd been happy, thrilled with myself, that I'd finally gotten to a place where I could say that I wanted out. That I was no longer sticking around, letting myself decline into savagery and indifference while things slowly crumbled around me and I could emerge somehow unscathed. That I was upfront, honest to a point, that I hurt her only so I didn't have to hurt her more later. I thought I had done a good thing. But it was only up until that point, and then nothing. Then silence, no explanation, nothing of substance, nothing she could wrap her head around. She'd known it was coming but obviously not in the way she'd thought. She'd wanted more. There was supposed to be more.

She wanted the truth. She wanted to know what had happened, why suddenly I had left. I'd wanted to tell her. But I was protecting her. Wasn't I? I didn't want to tell her. Why couldn't there be no good reason, why couldn't there be nothing? Why couldn't I hurt her so thoroughly and walk away her friend? Why couldn't she let time heal all wounds? Why was she dwelling on this so completely?

"I wasn't in love," I said. "That was it. I didn't love you."

She smiled the way I always remembered her doing. Things were fine between us after that.