This day

February eighteenth, three years ago, I wrote, "Her sister comes and picks her up after we speak. Alone, I roll into a ball on the couch. Muscles spasm. Arms and legs curl in on themselves. Chest muscles crush lungs. No breathing, no crying, my body a deformed statue. And then, relaxation. Limpness. Howling noises escape from my throat. Tears and snot cover my face."

Every year since, on February eighteenth, I've had friends over for drinks. To celebrate her breaking up with me. The party comes with the promise that the toasts will become more bitter as the night progresses. Last year, the final toast was on the cyclical nature of our romantic lives.

Four years ago, on this day, I was out with friends playing pool. I stayed in and watched the telly. I worked late. I went out for dinner.