Chocolate Pistachio
a scene.

“Nah,” I said. I glanced at the phone, thoroughly uninterested in the magazine I had been reading. I put my hand on the receiver.

“Don’t,” she said.

“I wasn’t going to call,” I said.

“Put the phone down,” she said. “I’m not joking. Put it down, walk away, get on with your life.”

I withdrew my hand. “Easy for you to say.”

She handed me a bowl of ice cream and took a seat on the love chair on the other side of the coffee table. “You’re right,” she said, “but it’s not like I’ve never had my heart broken before.”

“My heart isn’t —”

“Yeah, it is” she said. “Because, if it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be staring at the phone waiting for it to ring, or contemplating leaving another voicemail message that isn’t going to be returned. How long are you going to keep this going?” She stood up. “Just learn when to move on.”

I half expected her to throw some line at me about how the end of one relationship could be the beginning of another, or some other philosophical bullshit, but she surprised me by saying nothing further.