She wonders how long it'll be until he's no longer a worn down cliché that she only takes out and plays with when she's just the right mix of wistful and melancholy.
She doesn't need wine to fall into a black hole of remembrance. Her triggers are more subtle and less Hollywood. She carries just enough anger to make sure that one day she'll let go, but not quite enough to ensure that day is today.
She knows he misses her, probably more than she misses him, but she does her best not to indulge him when he falls into his own hole and starts the calling and the messaging, declaring his love.
If he had truly loved her, he would have chosen her, instead of sprouting a bride to be without even consulting her. She wouldn't have found out long after the decision had been made and announced. There's no going back once the envelopes have been mailed.
The vision he had of their shared futures had scared him almost as much her own had wooed her. Hers lit her up, but his made him flee.
The irony strikes her as funny. He had run headlong into the future he was trying to get away from, and now she's engaged in building the life that he had wanted for them, but assumed she hadn't.
A rueful grin plays on her lips as she imagines him out West, in that house full of children neither of them wanted, as she sits sipping coffee and reading their favorite philosophers in her quiet apartment on the Upper East Side.
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