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“That’s really not why I called you,” I tell her.

“I know,” she says, “but I bet it would cheer you up.”

“I bet it wouldn’t,” I answer, taking a shot of vodka.

“Pour me another?” she asks as I’m still breathing through mine.

I pour her another shot and start to wonder what the hell she’s doing here.

I know why I called her: I’m lonely, heartbroken and I have absolutely no one else to talk to about it. Unless she actually thinks I’m going to relent and we’re going to end up in the sack, however, I have no idea why she came over.

“You know what you’ve got to do,” she says and takes her shot.

“What’s that?” I ask. “Fuck my pain away?”

“Woo!” she says, slamming the now empty shot glass onto the table. “No,” she says, wiping her mouth, “well, it couldn’t hurt. What I mean, though, is that you’ve got to figure out a way to be all right with never seeing her again. How would you go about that?”

“If I had the answer to that question, I wouldn’t have a problem,” I tell her. “It’s not just some switch I can turn on and off at will.”

“It’s simpler than that,” she says.

“Simpler than flipping a switch?” I ask.

“Well, no,” she says, “but it’s not nearly as difficult as you’re making it out to be. All you have to do is get mad. Get angry at her for hurting you. You’ve heard of the five stages of grief, right? You know: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.”

“I’ve heard that they’re largely bullshit.”

“They’re not,” she says. “I mean, not everyone goes through every one of them all the time, and there’s not some absolute order to them, but they are a pretty common way that people deal with loss. You, my dear,” she says, “are stuck in depression. Have you even experienced anything else since she left you high and dry without so much as a phone call or a goodbye kiss?”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” I tell her, “but it’s not going to work. I love Leila, and I’m not about to get mad at her for following her dreams.”

“Oh, god, will you stop romanticizing the fact that she got a fucking job and moved to New Jersey?” she asks. “It’s about the least romantic thing there is. It’s just a thing. No, I’m not telling you to be mad at her for ‘following her dreams,’ I’m telling you to get mad at her for not wanting you to be a part of them.”

So far, I’ve been deftly avoiding Wrigley’s finer points, but that last part caught me off guard.

“She’ll call,” I tell Wrigley.

“She hasn’t yet,” she answers. “Why do you think that is?”

“She probably wants to make this easier on both of us,” I tell her. “I mean, if we’re not going to be able to be together, isn’t it better to—”

“Closure is better,” Wrigley interrupts. “That’s the one thing I will give you about the bullshit way you decided to stop giving mama the old in-out-in-out: At least you were upfront about it and were firm in your resolve. I’m not saying it’s been easy going back to less compatible man skanks, but at least you didn’t leave me hanging. I mean, that’s just fucked up.”

“Stop it,” I tell her.

“You’ve got to stop idealizing her as this perfect person who could never do wrong, who’s perfectly benevolent and holds the power to make your life better at a whim. That’s why people create gods.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” I ask.

She smiles.

“Nothing,” she says. “I’m just trying to tell you that the longer you put her on that pedestal, the less of her is going to be part of it.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“It means that the longer you idealize her, the less real memories you’re going to have to hold onto because they’ll all be slowly replaced by the fantasy. Memories are good, whether they’re of happy times or bad times. They keep things in perspective. If things are shitty, you can pull on a good memory to remind you that things aren’t always going to be shitty. If things are good, you can pull on a bad memory to remind you to keep your focus and not get complaisant.”

“Where do you get this shit?” I ask.

“I’m a social worker,” she says. “There’s a bit of psychological training that goes into that, you know.”

I stop to consider the fact that Wrigley has had substantial psychological training.

“How can I be mad at her, though?” I ask. “I’m just hurt. If anything, I’m mad at myself.”

“Why?” she asks. “Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve been around you enough to know that you’re pretty good at being stupid when you want to be, but that’s hardly a crime.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it,” she says. “What did you do that was so terrible to deserve being abandoned the way that Leila abandoned you?”

“Will you stop saying shit like that?” I ask.

“Why?” she smiles. “Is it making you angry?”

“Yeah, it’s making me angry.”

“Good,” Wrigley says.

“How is that good?” I ask.

“It’s good because you’re allowing yourself to feel something else. You’re becoming more in tune with the larger reserve of emotion that you’ve been pushing down so you could wallow in your depression. Movement is a good thing.”

“It’s so weird to hear you talk like this,” I tell her.

She laughs.

“I’ll tell you what,” she says. “Why don’t I pour another shot and you can take it from between my tits?”

“That’s much more familiar,” I chuckle.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do need to get angry. I’m just not used to being the one left wondering.

Yeah, I get the karmic bullshit in the situation.

I’ve been looking off into space, and I didn’t even notice that Wrigley has, in fact, poured another shot and she’s holding it between her breasts.

“You know you want to,” she says.

“Wrigley…”

“Stop being such a baby,” she says. “I’m not telling you to lick it out of my twat, although—“

“I think I’ll be okay,” I tell her.

“Oh, you’ve had enough for the night?” she asks. “Lost your tolerance for alcohol, have you?”

“No,” I tell her.

“Then, come on,” she says. “I’m kind of getting tired holding this thing in place. Maybe if I’d worn a bra, I could have—”

“Fine,” I laugh. “I’ll take the fucking shot.”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t read too much into it.”

I hesitate.

“Seriously,” she says. “I won’t. Now stick your face in there before I spill this shit.”

I laugh, but I’m thinking about what Leila would think of the scene.

You know what? She kind of gave the right to care when she just left without even saying goodbye.

She hasn’t been answering my calls, and the only reason I know she’s all right is because she sent over her stupid fucking friend—who I hate, by the way—to tell me that she didn’t care enough to see me before she took off.

My mouth is around the shot glass a moment later.

“There you go,” Wrigley says, running her fingers through my hair like some weird oedipal hallucination. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

I pull the now empty shot glass out of my mouth and set it on the table.

“You know what?” I ask.

“What?”

“It does,” I tell her.

She smiles.

“I’m glad.”

“And you know what else?” I ask.

“What?”

“You were right. What she did is bullshit, and I’m not going to sit here another week feeling sorry for myself about it.”

“Good for you,” she says. “Does that mean we’re going to fuck?”

And my momentum is stalled.

“Too soon?” she asks with a chortle. “Got it.”

“But you’re right,” I tell her. “What am I accomplishing by sitting here feeling shitty about everything? I’m just making it impossible to be happy. I mean, she’s doing what makes her happy, why shouldn’t I?”

“Okay, now I’m back to unclear as to whether—”

“Tonight, things are going to change. I’m going to stop trying to be that guy who sits at home, bummed because his girlfriend left him. I’m going to reintroduce myself to an old friend.”