You now know about the other woman. She’s not even as pretty as you are. To add insult to injury, she is a few years younger than you and has the ambition of a stone. This girl has no fashion sense, and her IQ is just dumb. You’ve always been the diva that he couldn’t keep up with. In the back of his mind he knew you were too good for him. He couldn’t manage to live-up to your standards. He’s no match to what you’ve accomplished with your career, your goals, your ambition, and your style.
You sit on a bench in Grand Central Station as he waits to board the Metro North. It’s your final good-bye. The relationship is over. You brag about all the fun you’re going to have with your friends later on that night. Even though your heart is bleeding and the pain is almost unbearable, you maintain composure and act like this is the best thing that could happen to you (it really is). You tell him it’s over with class and confidence; no loud screaming, no questions asked. You wish them well. Gracefully, you stand up and strut off into the busy, rush hour crowd in a pair of Brian Atwood’s Maniac lime-green patent-leather pumps. His mouth waters. He knows he made a mistake. He knows he lost a damn good thing. He watches you strut. He’s upset that he could never love your body again. He will never kiss your beautiful full lips again. He sits there in awe and upset as other men break their necks to get a second glance at you as you walk through the station.
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