Ex Mess 1987

It’s Christmas Eve, and I find myself walking home in the rain, alone for the first time in years, carrying the bottle of Italian red that “Santatini” left for me under the tree at Tim’s house. I’ve never liked Christmas at the best of times, but the last four months have been particularly trying, and even if the party did manage to cheer me a little, watching myself act out this holiday drama has left me feeling worse than I started. And since even that’s not enough, come midnight she just has to phone.
     “It’s not too late, I hope.”

Days later and I’m still playing the Roxy Music I swiped from the party, one song, over and over, trying to explain my dilemma to Tony.
     “We broke up in August,” I say. “And here she comes in December with the perfect Christmas present. She couldn’t get that together when we were actually going out, but now that we’re supposedly trying to ‘still be friends,’ she’s nicer than she’s ever been, and the nicer she is, the more miserable I feel.”
     And Tony says: “Of course you’re depressed, you idiot. That has to be the saddest song I’ve ever heard.”