I know why she wants to meet me here; she's breaking up with me. I can tell. It's been coming. It's been weeks since she last seemed excited to see me. I think she's seeing other people. I can't prove it, but there's a lot of little things that, when you add them together, make me think she's dating other guys. Like a couple of nights ago, when I found the box of leather underwear, zipper masks, and whips and chains in our closet. Sure, I believed her at first when she told me that she was holding them for her grandmother, but then I remembered: Her grandmother's Amish-she doesn't believe in zippers.

But that's not all. There's also the strange phone calls. I mean, I can understand one or two guys mistakenly calling our phone line looking for someone named "Sexy Caressa." But thirty or forty a day? And you would think she'd simply tell them they have the wrong number and get off the phone instead of rolling her eyes at me and saying stuff like, "I'll take this in the other room," or, "move,please, you're blocking the credit card machine."

I mean, maybe I'm just being paranoid, but my gut tells me she's just not as into me as she used to be.
And so, here I am, sitting with my cup of overpriced coffee, looking out the window and waiting for her to arrive and drop the bomb.

Why can't I be like this paper coffee cup? I mean, this paper cup and plastic lid don't mind being discarded. Sure, they savor the time that you hold them, caress them, use them to indulge your fleshly desires. They don't get so hung up on the reality that, when you're finished with them, they'll be cast aside... thrown away into the trash heap. They know that, if they're lucky, they'll be recycled; remade into another paper cup or lid that will again be loved-if only for a few sips.

It's a harsh cycle. An uncertain existence. But paper cups don't care. Plastic lids don't moan and cry over the lost relationship. They just keep on being paper cups and lids. So why can't I be like that. Why can't I be okay with the fact that I'm the mocha latté of the day, but tomorrow she'll want a caramel macchiato with whip cream and a shot of expresso. Oh, if only my heart were made by Dixie instead of God.

Oh, there she is. Look at her; walking in the door so smug. A brief wave in my direction. An awkward, I'm about to dump you grin. I hope this doesn't become a fight. I don't want it to get ugly. But I swear, if she tries to blame this on that one time she caught me playing nude bocce ball with Carlos and Alan, I'll knock that 21 ounce Rave paper cold cup right out of her hands. She knows it was just really hot that day.