I hadn't intended for this to become a series. Really.
I don't wonder about the original brown ponytail, Fucking Amy, anymore. I don't have to. There's nothing about her life that I can't guess. That's not arrogance on my part. She's just that bereft of an original thought. Believe me, there's nothing about her life that you can't guess, either.
"There's a picture of her on her husband's Facebook profile," Allie told me. I looked.
"Yep, that's her." Meh.
I felt nothing. Odd, that.
Allie continued. "Did you read his Facebook profile? People that inspire him: Reagan, George Bush, George W. Bush, and Jesus."
Now there's a feeling bubbling up.
Wait. No. That's not a feeling.
When I break up with someone, I sincerely wish them a life of happiness and love. (Except for the cheaters. I sincerely wish them chlamydia and eye crabs.) That comes naturally to me.
What does one wish for the woman who dumped him, though? All these years later, I'm still not sure what it is. Happiness, yes, but it's more complex than that. He wants it all to have been worthwhile. She should teach at-risk kids. Or become an inspiring travel writer. Or marry a kind single dad, doin' the best he can for his kids. Something positive. Throw me a bone. Give me something I can hang my hurt on, something I can point to and say "Wow. I get it now. It was totally worth it."
"I bet all the kids get a free ride at that fundamentalist private school he teaches at," Allie speculated, oblivious.