I look at Tiffany, who is sitting slouched, both elbows on the table. She’s wearing a black shirt that makes her hair look even blacker. She has on too much makeup, as usual. She looks sad. She looks angry. She looks different from everyone else I know — she cannot put on a happy face others wear when they know they are being watched. She doesn’t put on a face for me, which makes me trust her, somehow.
What I’m trying to say is, I understand feeling as small and as insignificant as humanly possible. How it can actually ache in places that you didn’t know you had inside you. It doesn’t matter how many new haircuts you get or gyms you join or how many glasses of chardonnay you drink with girlfriends. You still go to bed every night going over every detail and wonder what you did wrong or how you could have misunderstood. And how in the hell, for that brief moment you could think that you were that happy? And sometimes you can even convince yourself that he’ll see the light and show up at your door. And after all that, however long “all that” may be, you’ll go somewhere new. And you’ll meet people who make you feel worthwhile again. And little pieces of your soul will finally come back. And all that fuzzy stuff, those years of your life that you wasted that will eventually begin to fade.