My world lit up like nitroglycerine, and my soul was rendered asunder. I was floored to find myself so at the whims of my emotions. I underwent an embarrassing array of actions ranging from bleary groveling to sobbing raggedly in public to the actual contemplation that a demonstration of the photoelectric effect off a nice flat razor was vewy, vewy pritty.
Caught off guard there, I’ve grudgingly reconciled with the fact, more out of a practical sense of self preservation than a real acceptance, and uncannily surmised that a lack of experience in The Break Up Game had poorly prepared me for such an eventuality.
As a new page in my life turns, I can’t help but to imagine these embryonic moments, already miscarriages before conception, as a vista of lost joy forever unrealized. The gap of a boy’s toothed smile, natural mischief a-twinkle in these pre-pubescent brown globes. Her endearing and patient smile as she consoles two children, one large, and the other, small. I reassure myself with the false platitude that, in some gentle fold of Time, I did the right thing.