I have a secret

I think Amy is smokin' hot. That's not my secret. I just wanted to mention that first. Amy is a bartender at the Lex, the local dyke dive bar. Pretty much everyone thinks she is hot, so I am not unique in this observation. Amy is this combination of 1950's pin-up girl glamour and grungy tattooed lesbian. Yeah of course everyone thinks she is hot. Anyway, I was at the Lex last night with Cecilia and Ruth after work. As per usual Ruth was bitching about her creepy boss, which had Cecilia chuckling. I scanned the dimly lit red room that is supposed to feel effortlessly hip. (I can see a clear effort being made in the thin layer of dust and this month's artist display of expertly yellowed Polaroids). The new M.I.A. song came on along with a chorus of excited coos--if you can call any sound at the Lex a "coo."
I wasn't paying attention to Ruth not because she isn't hilarious--she is--and not because I was pondering my minor and generic crush on Bartender Amy--I wasn't, really. I was not paying attention to Ruth's antics because Julie had just strutted in the door.
And when I say strut I mean strut. Julie doesn't go anywhere that she doesn't strut.
Okay. Let me let you in on a little well known secret (still not the secret): San Francisco is a small city. Mini. You are bound, by some wretched law of gravity, to see people you don't want to see, frequently. And usually at your frumpiest. Now take this a step further; narrow the city down to 20-something lesbians. You just laughed out loud didn't you? Yeah, now your San Francisco is honey-I-shrunk-the-kids status. What does all of this mean? You will see your ex. How can you avoid this? Don't leave your apartment. Ever again. Or move.
Neither appeal? Well then you have to grin and bear it.
Where was I?
Julie just strutted in the door. Julie my ex.
This is the part in a movie where the music slows down, the outside noise becomes a blur, the extras on set are finding something uproariously funny in the background, and the "it" girl's hair seems exceptionally shiny and swing-y.
Ruth and Cecilia caught on when I shrank down in my chair and feigned sincere interest in one of the aforementioned Polaroids (they aren't completely slow). They looked at me expectantly, waiting for a reaction.
Of course I brushed them off. I was fine, whatevs, no biggie, o-ver-it! and took a big gulp of my gin & tonic...tried not to make a face.
I ignored Julie the rest of the evening while she flirted obviously with the door girl in my peripheral vision.
After all that I ended up calling it an early night (it was a weeknight anyway) and wandered home, smoking a cigarette (I WILL quit). I curled up with my cat called Wanda, slightly tipsy, and stared out the window at the grey drizzle, cozy in my melancholy.
Here is the thing: I wasn't upset because I was sad or jealous or crazed seeing Julie. I was sad because the opposite was true. I didn't miss her, I wasn't slightly jealous, and crazy called out sick. Apathy seemed to have flooded my brain.
Since when did I become so numb? I am not that cynical, jaded girl--I thought.
My secret. There are lots of them. But on the subject: I break hearts. I don't get heartbroken.
At least not so far.

Always,

Louise