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It remains the coolest breakup I know. She called and simply stated "I know about it...." and following a pause he replied, "I was always careful...." to which she hung up and by all objective measures, moved on. She clearly did not know about "it", but suspected it the way all beautiful women must, living a life reflective of male lust, Friday nights full of indecent and not completely insincere proposals from complete and wholly committed strangers. She called his bluff, and he folded.

So you can see my confusion years after the fact, moving into my new place and all the requisite groans and stiff smiles to new neighbors, politely declining the help, not so much because I don't need it (I do) but rather to protect them from knowledge of my belongings, for no well adjusted neighbor could possibly own so many "Family Guy" videos, or have retained so much pornography. With a whiff of Aveda and baby powder, he stopped me and handed me a dropped potato masher that fell out of the box. His smile was cordial, mine unfortunately, was likely hidden among the gaping void that had become my mouth. It was certainly him; not only do I have an impeccable memory for faces, but the large nevus on his cheek is a give-away (and the but of several post-breakup jokes). He had, however, become the gayest man in the history of the earth. Reebok aerobics shoes covered a twice-rolled tube sock, D&G jean shorts were hinting at 3-4 days a week on a Stairmaster, and the "I heart NY" shirt may well have read "One dick at a time".

Formalities ensued. His partner was nice enough, and with a vague babble of business I reached for my phone, called her, and did the only thing I could find in my heart to do.

I asked her about the weather in San Diego. I asked her who she was fucking. I told her I bought that place downtown In short, I told her nothing.