The Kid from Boston called, drunk, mid-afternoon to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving and tell me about mimosas and his apple-pie baking abilities. We briefly talked about the difference in Thanksgivings compared to last year, as last year he proposed almost daily over the long weekend. He said he was still waiting for an answer. I said that, given the circumstances and considering he had a girlfriend at the time, I thought the question slightly insincere.

Their day must have been lagging, as his roommate called, equally drunk, less than ten minutes later to tell me about his trip home to Minneapolis and to request scheduled Molly-time. Their house was full of Thanksgiving dinner guests and one must have asked who was on the phone. He hesitated.

“This girl that, uh, used to visit.”

I am the girl that used to visit. Nevermind that I dated his roommate for SIX YEARS – I have now been downgraded to the girl that used to, uh, visit. Obviously, the extended explanation was inappropriate for the holiday, which I understood at the time, but later I tattled to The Kid, covering my hurt in mock-outrage. He tried to correct the mistake.

“[Sweets, his roommate] is wrong.”

“What title would you have given me if you had been asked?”

“You were the love of my life.”

Regardless of the answer’s bullshit quality, I was slightly appeased that I wasn’t just remembered as that girl that uh, used to visit. On the negative side, however, apparently we haven’t gotten over each other as much as I would have hoped compared to last year.

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