One month since we broke up. Or rather, since he dumped me for the second time this year. A month of heroic – and successful – efforts to not email or call and of avoiding Facebook at all costs, each effort a daily, sometime hourly, triumph. And yet, regrettably, the first time I get on the tube and cry all the way home.? All the way. You know sometimes you see some girl (always a girl) just crying quietly and relentlessly on the train and whilst you wonder what’s gone wrong you thank your lucky stars that you’re not her? Tonight I was the crying girl. The object of pity. Trying desperately to be unobtrusive whilst inevitably attracting attention from all sides. If this were Italy or some other similarly sultry clime, I’d be surrounded on all sides by cooing masses, telling me that everything will be all right.
It isn’t. It’s the stuffy underpass to South London so instead everyone notices me whilst pretending not to.
In an entirely related event, today is the first time I speak to him face-to-face in a month. It’s brief and yet uniquely painful and I’ve been holding back tears with varying degrees of success since around half nine this morning as a result. A day of struggling along womanfully culminates in me finally,silently, losing all composure on the Northern Line. One month down, the rest of my life to go. Brilliant.
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