The Last Word

April 25, 2011
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We sat at our usual table in the back corner of Dairy Queen. This was the place to be on the first day of summer break, so the tables were starting to fill up pretty fast. The sun was radiant and warm, shining through the large glass window next to us.

“Why does ice cream always taste so good after a breakup?” I asked, before licking my vanilla ice cream cone.

“Because you eat away the pain,” said Sarah with a mouthful of cookie dough.

I sighed and looked out the window. An elderly couple was slowly climbing out of a black minivan. The car’s exterior had various scratches and the paint was chipped off on part of the hood. The man walked around the front of the car to help his wife on the passenger side. He lovingly grabbed her hand as she stepped out of the car.

“Claire!” Sarah said, making me whip my head away from the window to stare into her wide blue eyes.

“What?” I asked, my own eyes widening.

She swallowed and looked past my shoulder. “Whatever you do, don’t look behind you,” she said quietly.

I craned my neck around with curiosity. Standing right by the door was the guy, who just yesterday, gave me the typical “it’s not you, it’s me” break up line. And there he was, interlocking fingers with some platinum blond girl. Her short, skin tight, pink dress and ten inch black stilettos was the complete opposite of what I would ever wear.

He was smiling at her, with his other hand in the pocket of his baggy jeans.

I turned around to face Sarah again. Her eyebrows rose as she bit her lip and sighed loudly.

“So now what happens?” she asked.

I looked down at my chewed up nails and replied, “Nothing. He’s a jerk and it’s done with.”

Sarah slammed her hand down on the table. “It’s not done with! You can’t just let him get away with this. You have to have the last word.”

“Can we just go please? I can’t be here anymore,” I said as a stood up.

She looked at me, disappointed, and then finally got up from her chair.

As we made our way closer to the door, I thought about what happened yesterday. He had gently held my hand in his, explaining why he couldn’t be with me anymore. My vision was blurry as tears streamed down my face. I ran away from him until I reached my house. It wasn’t until today that I stopped crying.

When we reached him, he opened his mouth, about to make up some excuse for the tramp he was holding onto.

I put a finger up and he closed his mouth. “Save it,” I said.

I smashed my ice cream cone on his neatly groomed hair and the melted remnants dripped down his cheeks, as he watched me walk out the door.

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