“Relationships are like glass. Sometimes it’s better to leave them broken than try to hurt yourself putting it back together.”
I’m sitting in the nail salon near my apartment, perusing Vogue and making small talk with the woman who is cradling my hand and filing my nails. We’re catching up on our lives; I tell her I’ve been in Phoenix for the month. She nods and, in broken English, inquires after him.
I’d like to say my subsequent tears are a rarity, but lately, they seem to have a mind of their own.
I sit across from my best friend and shake my head, unable to squeak out a sound over the lump in my throat. I well up while crossing the street, while waiting in line, and now, in a mortifying turn of events, at the nail salon while this lovely woman across from me pats my hand in a show of support she does not have the words to express.
We had been together for four years (four and a half, if you count early long-distance courtship). We’d both been married before; he wasn’t looking for anything serious. Truthfully, neither was I: I had a thriving business in the fashion industry, a son in high school, and a mother who lived with us back in Phoenix. A relationship with a man in NYC seemed inconvenient, if not impossible.