I see my ex’s mother out of the corner of my eye and briefly cease to breathe. Did she see me? Does she recognize me? What will she do? Her appearance doesn’t help my panic because she’s got eyes better suited to an aye aye than a human woman, and it’s impossible to tell if she’s looking at me or the tasty pastries on the counter. I decide it’s the pastries and I beat it to a table. I pick one in the corner and pile my food on it jealously; I’m Smaug with a pizza and an apple turnover. I’m safe. Then she wanders over to the tables too, and my heart is dancing in my throat. I miss my long hair and the way it hid my face, I wish I hadn’t told the hairdresser one more inch. I’ve got no protection now, only the shadows, and I try to dissolve in them.

The shadows aren’t accomodating and neither is the world. Because there’s my ex’s dad, laughing by the door, and I’m officially in hell. Dante missed this particular circle and I’d correct him if he weren’t so dead, but he is and I’m left to imagine exactly what I did to earn this trip. I look back and forth:  to them, to my food, and them again. My appetite has surrendered. I wonder what I’ll say if they speak to me. I run my options in my head. My reaction depends on theirs. Will I receive the wordless acknowledgement, that soul-crushing piercing look of pity? Maybe they’ll try to be normal. Maybe they’ll ask me how I’m doing.

I could answer: “Fabulous. I don’t even cry anymore.”

I could answer: “Recovering nicely from my suicide attempt, thank you. By the way, I had sex on your couch three times.”

I can’t decide. I don’t want to decide. So I take a page from their son’s book and I cut my losses and run. I ditch my food, I dash out the door and into the rain. It’s pouring, pouring so hard, but I’m still thinking about the question that didn’t get asked. How am I?

So many answers and none of them fit. I’m living, I’m dying, I’m turning my face to the rain and asking the sky why I’m here. The pain in my head matches the one in my heart. If this is what life is then I call bullshit on everyone who’s tried to convince me it’s worth the trouble. My shoes are soaked, my face is covered in tears I never cried. Liquid collects in tiny pearls on my sweater, and like everything else in this world they don’t last.

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