I recognized her immediately: the soft, brown golden retriever-like eyes that turned down at the corners, the blonde, slightly over-processed hair and tan skin with a smattering of freckles that betrayed her Southern sorority girl roots despite her New York fashion girl get-up.
It was 2010 and I was working behind the cheese counter at a shop in the Chelsea Market. And she was … well, obviously doing well enough to spend $30 a pound on farmstead cheese. As I stumbled to weigh out her dainty wedge of artisan sheep’s milk, flustered and flushed, I felt a strange surge of vindication that twisted and wrapped around a twin, slightly nauseating feeling of anxious jealousy like some cruel double helix.
We had never met in person but I could have spotted her a mile away. And here she was, smiling obliviously at me across the refrigerated case as I swaddled her Manchego in butcher paper. Her credit card confirmed the name I had come to know and agonize over for months upon months of my life. She was The Ex. Keep reading »