The meeting is serendipitous to the point it’s contrived and some women dream that encounters are possible if you don’t look for them. But I’ve never walked towards an ex in slow motion, wearing an outfit constructed by stylists, hair coiffed in spite of humidity. And the ex never asks for dinner, asks me out for it, and I don’t quickly reply with okay or yes although I almost certainly would if my scriptwriter had any respect for me.
If I cheated, made the choice or fell like Zach Braff in The Last Kiss or Brad Pitt, I’d not be phoning for forgiveness expecting mobile providers to orchestrate confessions that only serve to better me. I’d learn to live with it like my inability to add, my indecision at everything and my right breast smaller than my left.