Things I shouldn't have done:
+ Sent flowers, particularly peonies. Just because I love them doesn't mean he does, even shot with mint and zymbidium. "Oh the chartreuse (pron: shar-troose) and pink special" says the florist and I feel as if I have no imagination.
+ Fought like that. Like he still loved me. Like there was a chance. Like I was in a poem by Tennyson. Or even Woolf. Like I cared. Or did I?
+ Asked him out for lobsta rolls. (I couldn't help it; it felt like summer.)
+ Left ten pillows on the bed for eleven months. I could negotiate his coming back against my discomfort? How mortifying. Now I have three pillows. And I'm fixing to get rid of the bed.
+ Waited so long to prune the trees. There is a clear view, a half circle, of Lookout Mountain from the counter in the kitchen. Green and sunlit and beautiful.
+ Waited for so long for a pink zebra rug, an orange laquer tray, a pink wall and a schoolgirl map of England.
+ Contemplated dating the man with the hoodie.