Eckhouse: Out of all the coffeshops in town, she just had to enter mine.

Out of all the coffee shops in town, she just had to enter mine.  Slut.

Let's back up a smidge.  The Morning Dew had been one of those special "our things" - the stupid crap you do in relationships - though it had taken some convincing.  Lee was not the coffee shop type (smells too much like clove, she'd actually said) until we started getting more serious.  And for a time, what was important to me was important to her. 

I found this place freshman year, in an effort to have a place to study that wasn't the library and thus prone to being deathly silent.  I'm one of those weird people who concentrate and focus with greater intensity when the ambient noise level around me is high.  Study for a test in the library?  No chance, I'd lose my mind.  Write a term paper with loud jazz, clinking ceramics and a fog of Camel smoke?  No problem.  Beyond that, Morning Dew was run by cool people who were making a living (I hoped) doing what they loved, and what idealistic young turd doesn't fall for that?  Or for the owner's girlfriend who worked the register?  Exactly.

So Lee learned to live with the jazz, and the clinking, and even the smoke to a degree.  The problem started when we realized that while I found this environment conducive to learning, Lee did not.  Lee wanted to talk about things, like us and school, and as a result I missed valuable study opportunities.  Friends began to join us as well, and suddenly we were socializing over damn coffee instead of studying or writing furiously in journals or pondering Nietzsche in a blasé way like all the other dweebs in the place.

Eventually the differences overcame us, and Lee was forced to tell me that she didn't want to date me anymore.  Not wanting to be in a relationship, she'd said.  Didn't want to start her last year of college attached to someone.  While this sounds remarkably calculated and heinous to the untrained ear, it was not the first time this excuse had been used in a college relationship.  Of course, most girls get such a lame one out of the way during their freshman year, but Lee was a slow learner.

Apparently I was as well, because peering over my Biochemistry book I saw Lee and her new boyfriend of three weeks coming in the front door.  (The bell on the door, once associated with the happiness of arriving, was all of a sudden triggering murderous Pavlovian urges.)  I'd first seen them together a scant two weeks after we broke up and figured she was off and running on her marauding conquest of senior year.  Seeing them together again and again, however, had begun to wrinkle my shorts. 

They passed by my table and she didn't so much as look at me.  He did, though, and I could tell he knew the story because of the look in his eye.  It was a look that said "sorry, dude, but what do you want me to do?"  Stop banging my ex-girlfriend, for starters.  But I really couldn't blame him.  Blaming her was entirely satisfying.

The End

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