So I’m sitting in the Burger King parking lot last night eating a slice of pie and thinking about Toledo. It’s been about three months since we broke up which is roughly half the time we were together. I’m doing ok. In fact, I’m doing better than I’d really like to be.

I had envisioned this sort of epic love that would grip me through decades of conflict and across continents and span wars and rulers. Like in all the country love songs. The guys hold onto these loves for years before the woman finally realizes she wants to be with them. But here I am only three months out and there’s entire chunks of the day where I won’t think about her at all.

The play I’m working on at work right now ends with these heart-wrenching journals from the husband of a woman who’s just died and as the actor reads about how much his wife meant to him and how well she’d prepared him for the day she’d die, I got a little misty and thought about the days when I believed Toledo and I would grow old together. And then the play was over and that was it.

We don’t talk much anymore and I can visual a time now in the near future where we probably stop talking all together. That thought still hurts a bit and I still have slight temptations to drive down there and grab her by the waist and kiss her so hard her eyes back up. But I’m just as content to sit here and write about it.

This is how the first love of my life ends…