The morning after Valentine’s Day we went to get breakfast and saw my favorite nickname for you right on the wall — Pizza Bagel. It was a sign.
We’d spent the holidays with each other’s families and my Baptist-raised brain started reading “Chicken Soup for the Jewish Soul” because that’s what your mom would’ve liked.
The day after Galentine’s with my friends is when you called it off. Apparently I called you a white supremacist when I was blackout drunk. You claimed that wasn’t the reason why but insisted we should be apart.
Right before I got out of your car you told me that throwing away your Yuengling t-shirt (Trump propaganda) was “a bit too much.”