study break.

we're talking about a friend of ours, and she says

"this breakup was apparently just sort of—"

she stops, her eyes drifting down like rain to her fish tacos,

"—I've never had one,

but I think you have,

and the only term I can think of is 'soul-crushing.'"

she nods, satisfied with the word she's assigned it.

"it was a soul-crushing breakup,

and you, more than many,

knows what that's like.

and even though I don't

(not first-hand, anyway),

I feel like I sort of absorbed some of it,

watching her smile fade and her heart scab over,

the light in her eyes,

replaced with rhubarb bitterness.

the worst part is that I don't think she's past it yet,

and I'm not sure what to tell her."

she picks at the cabbage

that fell to the side of her plate,

and I can hear it crunch beneath her fork.

"what was it," she says,

"that got you through your soul-crushing breakup?"

I sip Diet Coke and think back:

this ain't the time for disclosure,

so I make some stupid, half-joking remark about what looked

like it was helping to outside observers:

"whiskey, comic books, an exercise regimen,

a Nick Cave concert, personal apostasy,

and three Louis CK specials."

but the real answer

was the hope of moments like this,

to eventually be sitting at a plywood table,

across from someone who never stopped saying things I felt grateful to hear:

no matter the cabbage in her teeth,

the fish on her breath,

or the things I keep to myself.