You’ve felt it coming for a while. The two of you just don’t laugh together the way you used to. Even going to the movies is an unparalleled chore; you can never agree on whether to do apps and ‘tails at the Nitehawk or split forties at the AMC in Kips Bay. Sometimes you find long hairs twirled around your toothbrush and you just know she’s doing it on purpose. A simmering vitriol has worked its way into every conversation and now, even the most inane comment is sure to elicit a six hour shouting match about the astral significance of cardinal directions. So when your boyf/lady friend/sex partner says, ‘Hey babe, let me take you out for a nice dinner,’ you know that that sickly sweet voice doesn’t mean he or she is ready to reconcile. You brace yourself, and then you say, ‘Sure, honey. But I get to pick.’ If you’re gonna get dumped at a Bushwick restaurant, you want it to be somewhere fucking delicious.