For the sake of anonymity, let’s call him Paul.
Paul was my manager at Starbucks when I first moved to Chicahhhhgo. I went to work. Talked to customers. Drank way too many white mochas. Everything was just peachy...
Until the day I watched Paul blend a mocha frappuccino with extra mocha drizzle.
Then I was in love. And I had to tell Paul. But he was insistent on keeping our personal attraction out of the blender.
Eventually we had to have a conversation. You know, the one that kinda goes like this:
Me: “You’re my manager.”
Paul: “Yeah, I’m your boss. This can’t happen unless you transfer stores.”
Me: “Me transfer? Oh yeah, you make more money than me.”
Paul: “Ok then. It’s settled. I’m technically not your boss now.”
Within seconds, feelings of euphoria overwhelmed me. Where was my logic? Hell if I knew. I was so happy not to be alone anymore.
Now fast forward two years. We dated, moved in, adopted a dog, and played volleyball together. Our garden unit even had a washer and dryer! Things were pretty picture perfect...
Until I looked at him one night while playing volleyball and had a disturbing thought: “Why am I even with him?”
So that night, I packed my stuff and peaced out. As in, my dog’s leash was in one hand and a packed suitcase was in the other. My friend’s couch was my bed that night.
The next morning, I removed Paul entirely from my life. For once, the choice to lose was mine. It felt exhilarating!
I’m not proud of this moment. Or the other "dine and dash" moments of my life. But grief used to have a very powerful grip on my life.