9pm

I had called him one Sunday morning and left him a message that I needed to talk. Everyone knows what that code means. He called me an untimely amount of time later, just as I was picking up my gal pal. Obviously, I couldn’t talk, but I told him thatit was important. I'm sure that he knew what that meant and told me that he would call me at 7pm. I spent the day planning on how I was going to break up with him. This was not something I was looking forward to. I really liked the guy.  This sucked.  Why couldn't he just be a good non-boyfriend?

As I was talking myself out of it, 7pm rolled around, and then 7:30, 7:45, 8:00pm. More time rolled by and my desire to break up came flooding back. At 9pm I finally got a call. I was pissed. I drove over to his house prepared and ready to break it off.

He met me at my car and I couldn’t look at him. We sat down and I just let it all spill out. I told him that I wanted more. I told him that I couldn’t just be sex. It was a difficult breakup because we still really liked each other. (Not to mention what amazing sex I was passing on)  After an hour, and several tears, on my end, we hugged and he asked me if we could still be friends. I said yes, and somewhere deep inside I hoped that it meant we would get back together. Somewhere deep down, I hoped that he would look deep in my eyes and say that I was the gal for him, that he would be a fabulous boyfriend and we would have a great relationship and “Happily Ever After…”

I drove home happy that I had ended it, disappointed that the guy I liked didn’t want me back, sad that I was alone, and hopeful that someday I would find the love of my life.