I’ve been broken up with three times. Each time, I felt blindsided.
The first time, I was twenty-four. He sat me down on our sofa, holding his own fingers gingerly, and I interrupted his thoughtful breakup speech to ask, “Wait. Are you gay?”
He shifted his body backwards, “What? Are you serious?”
I was totally serious, “I dunno, you’ve been partying in West Hollywood a lot lately so... I’m just, like, trying to make sense of this.”
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