I had avoided you all weekend ever since cheating on you. I suggested we meet at Devil’s Den to “talk.” You arrived, somber, nervous. Asked a waiter for however much straight whiskey he could justify serving in one glass. I said we were on different paths; you would be content to live with roommates for the next few years, but I wanted something more serious. I never mentioned the cheating. You probably knew.
You insisted that I let you make me dinner (you already had a pasta sauce made). We sat one last time and laughed and ate.