4 months, 1am: the inevitable run-in
You’re on a helluva bender, but have been enjoying the perks of being a single New Yorker. One Saturday night, you’re out at Pearl's (because you're soooo Jefftown now). You hit the bar for another drink and notice your ex leaning on the other side. How did you miss their entrance? The place is a shoebox. You know the emotions flooding your brain are the alcohol, but still. Shit. You become flustered and dart your eyes around the room when they catch you staring at them.
Oh, shit. Oh, Jesus. Is that your ex at the end of the bar? Aren’t there like, a million other bars they could be at? No, of course it’s this one. You try your hardest to act natural but instead your body offers a comically overdone perplexed wave/shrug and before you know it, you’re walking over to the other side of the bar against your will.
4 months, 1:04am: bargaining and losing with yourself
Well, that was awkward, but you have to admit it was nice seeing them, though. You’re happy for how well they seem to be doing, but also slightly resentful that they might actually be better without you. You drink more to remind yourself that you are clearly, definitely winning at happiness. At the very least, you're making more money at your marketing gig than they are freelancing for that tech blog.
After talking loudly about all your new hobbies and accomplishments you’ve made in the last four months, you abruptly end the conversation and excuse yourself, as to not appear weak. You rapid-fire order several rounds of well whiskey shots and leave. After the bar, you skittishly eat a hastily made bodega sandwich in fear of your ex turning up at any moment. When you’re finally home, after brief deliberation, you text them, asking to come over.
4 months, 4:30am: the aftermath
You respond in kind, remembering everything you liked about the other person. For a fleeting moment, you consider that going over there might be a bad idea, but ultimately 4:30am-you tells logical-you to shut up. More specifically, you’re thinking about how long it’s been since you actually got laid. You feel nostalgic about the 45-minute, two- or three-transfer (depending on the maintenance schedule) commute to your ex’s place that you would take so often, but opt for an Uber instead.
You frantically shove all of your dirty laundry under your bed and take out the trash for the first time in weeks, empty a bottle of Febreze on your sheets, and quickly Google their route for an ETA from Williamsburg to Astoria.