I broke his heart on the 4th of July. I didn’t mean to, but it was inevitable. He was 37; I was 21. He hoped I’d settle down and have his babies; I hoped the bartender would hurry up with my fourth glass of wine. Really, he just wanted me to be the type of woman whose joy in life was to put dinner on the table — not dance on it.
“Oh I WILL have a good Independence Day!” he yelled as I walked away. “Because I’ll be celebrating my independence from YOU.” I should have waited until the 5th.