You receive the bad news via email. It is the first time someone breaks up with you like that. The email is formal, short, and to the point. It starts with “Dear Borislav,” and ends with “Best Regards.” It reminds you of that resignation email you sent to your boss last year. If you remove the sugarcoated paragraph about how great it was working for the company, all you’ll be left with is “it’s been great, but I have to go and you have to find someone to replace me.” Her email said the same thing. But instead of finding a better paying job, she found a better person to be with (who probably has more money than you do). And now you have to replace her.
The sky is clear and the sun is unbearable. It reminds you of Camus’s The Stranger, when Meursault shoots the Arab four times. You want to shoot somebody, but there’s no one around you and you don’t have a revolver. If anything, the one you really want to shoot is your lover, ex-lover, who emailed you about an hour ago. She dumped you for the most stupid reason- you’re a level or two below what is called middle class. There is no future with you.
Do you really love her? Do you really want her back now that you know she’s a fucking whore? The answer is yes: you want her back because you don’t know how to live without her. You’ve been together for so long that you think you two belong together. You’re a classic idiot.
You sit at the bar and order beer. The bartender knows you, but he doesn’t start a conversation. Just by looking at you he knows that it’s not a good time to trade jokes and talk about the weather. Minutes later, you order a shot of whiskey, then another, then another. You want to die or get drunk, so you get drunk. And the bartender helps you: “This one’s on me.”
Then the funniest thing happens. Your lover, ex-lover, enters the bar with a new lover. How long has it been since she dumped you? No more than four hours.
At this point, you are completely intoxicated but the sight of her sobers you up. Your heart burns, your blood boils, and a raging animal roars inside of you. Nonetheless, the seconds pass and you are back to being a drunkard at the bar. Whatever you do now, you will not stand a chance against her or the new lover. Whatever you say or do will make you an asshole.
Your wit has abandoned you: you are a warrior without his faithful sword. You will break, you will fall, and you will die.
She looks at you and smiles. Your stool breaks, you fall to the floor, and a part of you dies. The bartender comes running to help you. But as he tries to carry you back up, you whisper: “Let me die here. Let me die here…”