This is a story about what my sister refers to as "poetic justice".
I'll begin with telling you about him. His name is Dustin. He was my first serious boyfriend. I was in love with him, or at least I thought I was; I can never be sure why. I mean, we made some wonderful memories. We danced in the kitchen. We took hikes in the woods. We made each other mix-CDs. We just sat on the couch and cuddled. I just wish I could remember those more instead of the bad memories...
The bad ones would not exclude him having sex with my then-best friend, denying it, then admitting it, and saying it would never happen ever again. Guess what? It did. I was crushed. Crushed. Its the only word that seems fitting. Like being stomped on until you've shattered into a million pieces, like little shards of glass. I can't count how many times he would email me and I would angrily (and sometimes tearfully) send a reply, my mind set to ultra-bitch-death-ray mode.
This was over a year ago. After a while, I just started ignoring his emails and he stopped sending them.
He works at Starbucks now. The one right by my house that I always go to. There's absolutely nothing wrong with working there. I imagine it's an excellent job. And while I feel a sad twinge in my stomach when he hands me my venti caramel frappuccino and seems too scared to even look at me; you have to admit, there is a sort of irony in the fact that the boy who stomped all over my heart now makes my coffee.
Yeah. I really love happy endings.