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That’s a pretty name. I like your name, the sound of it, the way it sounds when spoken. It’s like the soft sound of ice in a glass.

But tell me again, how did we get to talking about this? I’m sorry, but tell me how we got to talking about break ups.

*

I won’t recommend the Empire State Building, that’s for sure. The Empire State building I wouldn’t recommend as a place to break up. Not unless you’ve been drinking and don’t mind a tearful elevator ride down, long and awkward and packed with foreigners and foreign languages, everyone but you and her overjoyed by the experience. This happened on a Sunday, two o’clock or four or maybe even later. Linda was her name. She’d won an office raffle, had had a free make-over the day before at a salon run by Russians. I have to tell you, she looked terrible. Her face was splotchy, swollen, like someone had hurtled grapefruits at her. Newly dyed, her hair was an awful brown, like a weak tea from a twice-used bag. She didn’t look her best, which made things easier for me.

Gin was my drink that day, from early morning. I don’t know why, but I was nervous. The weather was brilliant, clear.

Why’d we break up? Well, we’d moved beyond that initial stage where the once endearing was now irritating.

The words were simple. And though I had no reason to be, I was full of nerves. I’d practiced in front of the mirror, trying to convince myself it’d go easy.

I made my speech in the gift shop on the observation platform of the Empire State Building, after which I picked up a refrigerator magnet and asked her, “You want a souvenir?”

Wiping her eyes, she said, “What, like I want to remember this day?”

Gin was my drink that day.

I wouldn’t recommend the Empire State Building.

*

The Staten Island Ferry is the worst place to break up. Jodi was the worst, with her large white parka, rabbit fur stoles, and the habit of sucking her teeth before she spoke. I can’t say what I saw in her.

No matter what, wait until you’ve docked. There’s nothing worse then being trapped out on the waters, with the engine churning through the wetness below. There’s nowhere to go, no way of escaping.

When her tantrum grew violent, the ferry’s crewmen had to be called.

I learned my lesson. I don’t date women from Staten Island. I don’t date women who end their names with an "i."

*

Tell me again, what’s your name? I’m sorry, but tell me your name again.

*

When I ordered a bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau in my feeble French, the waiter burst out laughing, exposing a mouthful of teeth the color of hardwood flooring. We were in Paris, Margaret and I, had been dating for four months. We used each other’s toothbrush, wore one another’s socks, and had a way of answering each other even before the question was asked. We had something, I thought, a closeness, a comfort, though it wasn’t love.

The waiter laughed and laughed when I asked for the wine.

I can’t claim this one, can’t say I ended it. Nor can I say what happened. After the trip, we just stopped talking. Stopped calling. Stopped seeing each other. Like our moorings broke and we silently drifted apart.

I think it had something to do with the fact we never had a weekend of full-on sex and nothing else.

According to the waiter, the French don’t drink Beaujolais Nouveau. It’s made exclusively for the Americans and British, people without taste.

*

In the summer, Central Park’s Great Lawn offers openness, fresh air, and very little intimacy. The pretzels sold near the boathouse are the best I’ve ever tasted.

When Marianne began to cry, I simply walked away.

*

Tanya was the first black woman I dated. I ended our three-week affair by sending her an email. She sent her brother over to talk, making certain I understood men don’t break-up with Tanya. Tanya breaks up with them.

After a brief conversation, I conceded my mistake. He’d played football for the University of Alabama and made sculptures out of I-beams. Easily, he had a hundred pounds over me. I conceded my mistake. It wasn’t me who broke up with Tanya. She broke up with me.

*

But no, let me start again. This isn’t sounding right. I’m coming off callous, aren’t I? Insensitive. It’s not like that. I’m not like that. Really. I’m not.

Let me start again.

*

Hannah. We met my sophomore year in college at a Cornel West lecture on rap music and the white man. We shared our fall semester together. She studied Poli Sci, I, History. Her hair long, it hung to her waist. With fake IDs, we’d sneak into Bear’s Bar, drink five-dollar pitchers of Miller Lite, and play Hüsker Dü on the jukebox. The sticky booth table in back by the dartboard is where we’d kiss.

Winter break came. I bought her the entire Clash catalogue for Christmas. She bought me nothing. Her father sold office equipment, preached the virtues of ergonomic chairs and recycling. We didn’t see each other the entire break. She was always on her way out the door when I called.

Spring semester arrived. Two days, then five, passed. I didn’t see Hannah that first week. When I saw her she’d cut her hair. She’d changed her major to finance and now drank only imported beer. “Who?” she asked when I told her I’d gotten us tickets to see Big Audio Dynamite.

I went by myself. She was there, with another guy.

That spring, I read Ulysses, took to smoking, and lost twenty-two pounds. I rarely left my dorm.

The name Hannah is a palindrome. Spelled either forward or backward, it’s the same.

*

Once, I used “It’s not you, it’s me” to end it with a woman from Idaho. I thought the line gentle, free of hurt.

Then, after six months of dating and plans to move in together, Camilla turned that line on me, with crushing effect. “Really, it’s not you,” she repeatedly said. “It’s not.”

But it always is. It’s always you.

*

But tell me again, how did we get to talking about this? I’m sorry, but tell me how we got to talking about break ups?

*

I haven’t, really. It may sound that way, but really, I haven’t. I’ve not dated that many women. Seriously dated only a few. Four, or no, three. No, not even that many. Really.

*

Then there was Loren.

While I wasn’t deeply invested, the ending of Loren and my relationship still stung. She was a real estate attorney who charged $125 an hour for closings. We’d met at a wine tasting at Astor Liquors, went to dinner the next night, and started dating.

It was something small we fought over, the amount of tip to leave at the sushi place, or a comment she made about my receding hairline, or whether she’d had too much to drink. Something I can’t even recall.

Still, she spent the night.

But the following day I received a letter from her secretary, on the law office’s letterhead. Loren, it stated, had terminated our relationship. She would no longer be seeing me, no longer be spending time with me. The letter was messengered over. I had to sign for it.

An invoice for $1250 was also included. Billable hours for the evening prior.

*

How many dates have I been on? You mean, including the ones that didn’t count, the dates that weren’t really dates?

*

Crystal, I feel terrible about. Really, a nice woman. Very nice. But the problem with Crystal was the smell of her skin. She smelled odd, like processed garlic and burning tin foil. She was a scientist, worked for a lab at Columbia University studying the effects of Viagra on amoebas. Nice woman, smart and interesting. But I always felt ill after she spent the night, felt her odor had leached into my bedding, my clothes, had taken over my place. Even after I showered, I could still smell her on me, like I’d somehow been stained. Really, Crystal was great, but I had to break it off. I couldn’t stand smelling her all the time, even when she wasn’t around.

*

I know it all sounds a mess. I know I sound a mess. But I’ve learned. I’m older. I’ve learned and am now a better person.

How do I know? What do you mean, how do I know?

*

A restraining order ended it for Holly and me. She didn’t take kindly to my comments of her art, paintings of saints eating at fast food restaurants. None of her work was good. The colors where off, the dimensions wrong. The women looked like men and the men all looked the same, like Jack Lord, the hair really big. We’d been dating six weeks when she asked for my thoughts on her work. An honest critique, she said. Tell me the truth, she said.

I gave her my opinion. She gave me a paring knife in the thigh.

It’s amazing how difficult it is to get a restraining order. There’s tons of paper work. They make you pay a processing fee.

*

My first girlfriend? High school. Senior year. Gayle. The football games in the fall, basketball in the spring. We held hands in the hall between classes, kissed in the stairwell. I really had feelings for her, really felt happy when she was around.

Then came prom and she went with someone else.

It was all a misunderstanding, she said. The handholding, the kissing. The fact I thought we were boyfriend and girlfriend.

I’d misunderstood her, she said.

*

Come on, it’s not that late, ten, ten-thirty. Sit down. Another drink, I’ll buy you a drink.

Ah, but I’ve said too much, haven’t I? I’ve scared you off. I sound like a heel. But really, I’m not.

How did we get to talking about this? Tell me how we got to talking?

Why haven’t I settled down? Well, I guess I just haven’t found the right one, that one special woman for me.

Don’t laugh. I believe that. Yes I do. I wholeheartedly believe that. There is a woman somewhere who I’m perfect for, who’s perfect for me. I believe that. We’re bound to meet. In fact, I have a feeling we’ll meet very soon. She could be here tonight.

Don’t laugh, but she could be you. We seem to get along. We seem to get along well. I’m serious, you could be the one.

But tell me again, what’s your name? I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.

© 2005 Douglas Light