I knew it was over about three hours after my last new post. My not-so-special lady’s text glared at me like a polished turd (100% possible per Mythbusters): “Could you please bring my Doctor Who DVDs to rehearsal tonight?” She didn’t know how jammed my Mondays are—work, then straight to therapy, then straight to rehearsal, with a dinner of granola bars in my car in the Harper College parking lot—but luckily, I’d had the DVDs sitting in my car for weeks, since I expected to see her much sooner than this.
It’s weird when something seemingly innocuous feels like the worst possible omen, but her behavior over the past few weeks left little room for doubt. The part of me that wanted to believe she was just sick and everything would return to relative normalcy as soon as she got better grew smaller and smaller with each new sign that she was preparing to end things.
“Why not just put it out of its misery?” I asked myself. When I got to rehearsal, she seemed pretty normal, though—chatty and pleasant. She even seemed to forget she asked me to bring the Doctor Who DVDs an hour earlier. I wanted to put a hash mark under the “Innocuous Message” column, and she made it easy to do that, so I let her.