Jane,

I’ve been thinking of you lately. I’m sorry our relationship ended as it did. We were so sympatico, always in the same orbit, my sun to your moon. Remember when we walked the Plaza that April day? We stopped for ice cream, some of the chocolate dripping down your chin. I wiped it off with my sleeve so your white dress wouldn’t smear. Pretty gallant, huh? We laughed about your job as a hairdresser and the weird people you’d meet, that dude with a mohawk and nose rings, the chick with seven colors of hair like a mood ring gone psycho, the grandma with blue hair and perm ringlets so tight her brain was starved for thought. Are you still working there (I can’t imagine why)? How’s your mom, that old witch? Man, she hated me, though all I ever did was treat her with respect. Anyway, I miss you, hence this text. Yeh, I left suddenly, but you know how my job is—big things to do, important places to see.  Do you still have my CDs, especially the Guns and Rose’s we both loved. I’ll always think of “Sweet Child of Mine” as our song. You take “me away to that special place.” I’m going to be in town next week. Want to hook up, Babe?
……
Jim,
Next week, don’t call, don’t text, don’t drop by my house, don’t come near me or my friends. In fact, I’d prefer you avoid my zip code. Let me correct several of your misconceptions. First, that April on the Plaza, I told you I didn’t want to go, that I had my April hay fever, but you, of course, ignored my wishes. There we were, out in a windstorm, me sneezing, wheezing, coughing, and feeling awful. When you took us into the ice cream place to order, I tried to remind you of my lactose intolerance. You ignored me. And who uses a sleeve to wipe up anything? Were you raised under some bridge by trolls? Oh, my dress was red, not white, BTW. Thanks for remembering. Second, my job. You always put me down for “only” being a stylist. As if your job as a roadie for a garage band was brain surgery, you toting amps, plugging in guitars, picking up the band’s trash after a gig at the local dive. I worked hard for my license, and my clients are like family to me. I value the “dude,” the “chick,” the “grandma.” They trust me with their appearances, and I try to meet their expectations with professionalism. Finally, mom died last month after a courageous struggle against leukemia. She was worth about twelve million of you, Jim.  Several of my friends and I got together after you left on the band’s road trip, one whole state over. We celebrated your absence by drinking watermelon vodka spritzers and burning your damn disks. The Guns and Rose’s CD burned into cinders, your sun eclipsed by my moon, especially after I doused it with lighter fluid. I was never your child, your baby girl, your sweetie pie, your pumpkin, your doll. So no, we won’t be hooking up. PS—I’ve blocked you, unpinned you, unfriended you.  It’s all thumbs down, “Babe.”

– Steve Gerson