Glacier

I believed it. It's not like I'd expected all of his good manners to go flying out the door simply because he'd decided to pummel my heart the day before. He was gentleman, a true gentleman. I almost wished I was there just to hand him his coffee as if he hadn't even phased me. I could pretend too (maybe?). But then I remembered how shitty it'd made me feel to serve him coffee and, you know, the prostitution of it all, and I stopped wishing. "Ugh, I wish he'd just call me by my name," was all I said in response. 

Lizzy huffed. "I know right? Did he think it was clever or something because you serve coffee? He's so damn pretentious." 

Actually, I did think it was really sweet when he'd first called me that. It wasn't as generic as 'babe' or 'hun' and less embarrassing than 'sweet cheeks' or 'pet'. The first time he'd used it, I replayed the sound of it in my head until I saw him next. But I didn't say this to Lizzy. She was simply playing the part of commiserate girlfriend and it was my duty to play opposite her as the appreciative woman scorned. 

"I mean, why not "Molineux" rose instead? That would have at least been original," she said.

"Because it's a shrub."

"Oh, what-ever! My point is, what was he thinking?" 

"Probably the same thing he thought when he brought his other woman into the shop," I'd said in a disgusted tone, only partially feigned. "Only of himself."

Those words echoed in my head now, as I hugged Becca tightly (she was my closest friend after all) and walked away. Ten minutes later, I found myself holding a ticket for the 8:30 showing of Singing In The Rain. The fact that I lived within walking distance of a theater that frequently showed Hollywood classics may or may not have been a coincidence. Movies always made me feel better. Marilyn Monroe biking over a bridge in Some Like It Hot, bellowing "Wait for Cookie!" Rain pouring down on Holly Golightly as she crushed Cat into her chest and kissed Paul at the mouth of the alleyway. Bogie in a trench coat reminding Ilsa that they'll always have Paris. Iconic moments that reminded me of how easily you can fall in love, how surely things turn around and how quickly you could meet someone who swept you hopelessly off your feet. So, it would be impossible for me to be sad watching Gene Kelly tap dancing in puddles. Impossible. I was smiling already at the memory of it.   

I had almost an hour to wait so I plopped down on a bench at the edge of the park, watching the people swirling around me. It felt like a movie montage when the scorned woman watches miserably while everyone carries on as if her broken heart makes no difference, which of course it doesn't. In the movie version of my life, I'd find inspiration in the bustle of the people, the constant turning of the world, and decide go on living as a part of it again. I'd throw my hair over my shoulder in slow motion and smile into the camera. I'd be ready to move on. But in the reality of my life, I felt insignificant and alone and imagined climbing back into my bed, nesting under the covers and only emerging when the sensation to pee was absolutely unbearable.  

"How pathetic," I said to myself, partly because thoughts like that landed you in Detrol commercials and partly because I felt tears strolling down my face. I swiped angrily at my cheeks and dabbed at the edges of my eyes. I was crying in the middle of Union Square. Great. I huffed and pulled my hands through my hair. "How embarrassing," I repeated, and a laugh, more of a whimper really, escaped my lips. 

"Not so much embarrassing as it is moving," a voice said from the other end of the bench. I hadn't even noticed someone was sharing it with me. With my hand still tangled in my thick curls, I whipped my head to the side and scowled at a runner sitting there. His limbs were draped lazily over the bench, and the street light hit his skin in strange ways making his body look blown-out. Hair the color of wet sand clung to his forehead and fell into light eyes. My gaze traveled down to the drenched t-shirt hanging on his broad shoulders and lifting slightly at the waist to expose a sliver of tanned skin. He was wearing dirty running sneakers, the kind frat boys wore and thought matched every outfit. I cringed slightly before stifling it. What if that sent this weirdo over the edge?