Three Pitchers

He prob­a­bly should have stopped after the sec­ond pitch­er.

At the start of the evening break­ing up had been the far­thest thing from his mind. Now, shuf­fling along the side­walk in the clam­my chill of an ear­ly Sep­tem­ber 2am, he tried to shake the last of the Leinie’s out of his brain to see if he could trace the tra­jec­to­ry of events that had led to the tear­ful scene he was walk­ing away from.

He had felt torn: he enjoyed being a sem­i­nar­i­an, but he also felt very strong­ly about the increas­ing­ly-pas­sion­ate rela­tion­ship that had devel­oped between them. Of course, she had appar­ent­ly been feel­ing torn, too: four months since things had first heat­ed up between them, and yet there was still anoth­er guy in the pic­ture, and no indi­ca­tion that would be chang­ing any­time soon.

Had he mere­ly called her bluff? No, he was pret­ty sure he had been sin­cere when he told her that, since she could seem­ing­ly not make up her mind, he felt he had to make up his. Bit­ter words, long silences, then he let him­self out of her dark apart­ment and set out on the cold, lone­ly walk back to the sem­i­nary, back to the life he had re-cho­sen, away from the one he want­ed.

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