This story was recalled during the course of a correspondence I had yesterday, and I thought it might be worth repeating, if only to explain how a magnificent specimen such as myself has managed to remain single during the majority of my 13-year stretch here.
An old friend told me this story. There was this couple she knew, they’d been together for years. One Sunday, the woman walks in and says she’s found another guy and she’s leaving. The man is devastated. Wrecked. His life has been shattered. But she’s as good as her word: Monday morning she’s packed and a cab’s waiting outside.
Naturally, after all those years of living together, you don’t get everything in a quick pack like that, so she had to call him later Monday and ask him if he’d mind looking for this and that. Did it again Tuesday night, too, another few things she’d forgotten. He could just put them in a box and call a cab to deliver it. And here was her new address.
So this guy’s dealing with the fact that not only is this woman out of his life and enjoying herself just a couple of U-Bahn stops away, the very thought of which makes him miserable, but she’s calling him every day. Mail needs to be forwarded: did the stuff from the insurance company come? Don’t forget to water the plants in the kitchen; you were never very good at that, but I’d hate to see them die, and there’s no room for them here.
Friday she calls and…invites him over to dinner on Saturday night.
My friend pre-emptively protested that this story was true, but by the time I heard it I already knew it had to be.