That Guy? He's Gone Now

Today was that guy's last day in the office and it felt dang weird. Of course, someone brought bagels and donuts and lots of people gathered -- around my desk, I might add -- to send him on his way. Ugh.

The last words I said?

"Drive safely."

The last words he said?

"I'll see ya later."

Great life moments die like the rest of everything. Pathetically and with an element of irritation.

The day after I found out he was quitting, he took me to lunch to explain why he was leaving and to ask me what I thought. I found that interesting. It was almost like he was asking permission. Turns out, there were three reasons for his leaving . . . there is no future in the USAP (Duh. We all know that), his Dad is getting old, and there's a girl in Seattle. The girl news took some weasling, but eventually he admitted it. Amazing how uncomfortable it made him when I asked about her. Amazing. He's moving back to Seattle to probably marry this woman and he couldn't say her name out loud without becoming unfathomingly uncomfortable. I thought the man would squirm out of his chair. Amazing!

Poor Dear.

Today he met his other ex-girlfriend -- the one he traveled with that once -- for breakfast. And I laughed when I heard it. How many meals did this poor fucker have to buy to get out of town?

May his journey be uneventful.

May his new job be magnificent.

May his father be healthy.

And may Susanna -- or whatever her name is -- be very, very dumb . . . and not notice that he collects adoring women like postcards. May she never sense all his separate lives. May she never notice his private cell phone calls, his multiple email addresses, each given to a different kind of friend. May she never see his eyes dance all over and flirt with a woman coworker. May she never ask him where he was, what he was thinking, or what he really wanted. May she get pregnant quickly and claim him.

Because this man won't stay unless he has to. And even then it's a risk.

This man won't be honest until it suits him. And even then he'll embellish.

May he drift away forever . . . may he become a memory, bittersweet.

And may I never fall for another.

May I never fall for another.