Time

"Today wasn't so bad," I thought as I got off the subway at my stop and began walking home from work. I didn't cry at my desk, I had lunch with my coworkers and I laughed a few times without having to force or fake it.

I squinted into the early evening sun as I wound my way up the busiest street in my neighborhood. The street with all the storefronts, bars and restaurants. I passed a wine bar that opened a month or so ago. Outside, I saw a sign for "Wine Wednesday," at which time, according to the sign, all bottles of wine are half price. 

"That's a good deal," I said to myself, "I should go there sometime."

And then I remembered. I was there exactly a week ago, with Dave. We shared a half-price bottle of prosecco. We talked about our day, everything seemed normal. He wanted to order another bottle but I said we should go home instead so I could cook dinner. 

So we went home and I cooked dinner and he broke up with me. One week ago.

I mulled this over as I continued walking home. I thought about it carefully, from a distance, so as not to shatter my composure.

When I entered my apartment, I saw that the last of Dave's stuff was gone. In one week, he broke up with me, moved out and found a new place to live. I had asked him to leave his keys behind, partially out of spite. He left them on a clean, white napkin, which, for a moment, I thought was a note. 

"It's been one week," I marveled. And I couldn't - I can't - figure out if it seems like it's been longer or shorter than that, nor can I decide if the passage of these seven days means my heart will heal more quickly or more slowly than I initially thought.