The Other Guy

I saw her at a bar with someone new. He was laughing at her jokes. They weren't even funny.

That's what I told myself, anyway. Her jokes are a little funny. They're actually the best thing about her.

We broke up in March. I said it was mutual. It wasn't. She said I was "emotionally unavailable," which I Googled, which proves her point.

Months passed. I got my life together, or at least a gym membership. Told everyone I was thriving. Posted a photo with a drink I didn't even like.

Then, Saturday night, I walked into a pub and there she was. Booth in the corner, new haircut, new guy. He had his hand on her knee like it was nothing. Like it hadn't taken me six months to learn where she's ticklish.

I should've left. Instead, I ordered a drink and sat where she couldn't see me.

She laughed, and my chest did something I wasn't prepared for.

Then she reached into her bag, took out a pen, and wrote something on a napkin. A habit of hers. She slid it across to him. He smiled.

I know that habit. She did it with me. Little notes. Little jokes. Little pieces of her.

I walked out before the last round, past the bouncer, into the cold. Ordered an Uber. Sat in the back seat, replaying it.

The driver asked if I was okay.

I said, "Yeah, just tired."

Tired of being the only one still in the story.