Rituals

by Beau Burriola

When I swear off a relationship, I have this little "I'm over you" ritual I apply to cleanse myself of the unworthy bastard I've just been screwed by.
I smash up all my picture frames, burn cards, throw bits of torn up pictures off a ferry, thicken the air with creative blends of their names and loud expletives, and I hide away at the gym for a few weeks to get over it all. I swear off dating, convince myself he was probably annoying, self-centered, not that great looking, and all wrong for me anyway. I didn't need him, he didn't need me and my name comes first in the alphabet. So there.

I'd gotten pretty used to this little ritual, applying it liberally every time a big one ends (because it's never my fault) and so far it's worked great for me. Though I still have a few shoeboxes full of semimetal stuff I never look at - like the first Valentines Day card I ever got from a boy - my little ritual helps me get over it.

"Are you even listening to me?" Adam asked, slamming his hand on the table with attitude. I forgive his tone because he's 21 and naturally moody. Shanty's breakfast diner was bustling with the a sun-energized morning crowd and the sounds of clanking silver and blended chatter shared the air with waffles, pancakes and burnt coffee. Each time the door opened, the sun's reflection danced across our table and back across it again.

"Of course I am," I lied.

"What am I going to do?" he asked turning the happy picture of him and his ex over and over in his hands, eyes still puffy from crying.

"You'll get over him," I said for the third time this meal, trying to keep a serious tone. "You dated for how long?"

"Two months," he said, but then perhaps thinking it too short he added, "but it was really intense."
"Two months," I repeated into my coffee cup.
Since he came into town for the weekend to see family and mope about his latest relationship, Adam has been torn up over his ex. San Diego hasn't treated him well, his life isn't where he wants it to be, and he'd been putting all of his time, energy, and money into his new relationship with that youthful faith that it's all going to last forever. I still didn't know what to say to him. I've never know what to say, but that hasn't stopped people coming to me for advice.

"What am I gonna do?"

Looking down at my watch, I figured I had a few hours to spare. It was Sunday, after all, and I had nothing big to do today. I had enough time for a lesson.

"Come with me," I said, paying our bill and walking toward downtown. On the long walk downtown, it was more of the same. What will I do? You'll get over him. How? You just will. I don't know if I can. Of course you can.

We caught the 9:40 ferry to Bainbridge Island from downtown Seattle, because it arrived first. Adam was obviously confused since I hadn't let on what we were doing just yet. As the ferry let out the long launch horn and pushed away from the dock, we stood ready on the sun deck.
"Take the picture out again," I said, watching him take it out apprehensively. "Now tear it up into little pieces and toss it off. Go ahead."

Standing there in the sun leaning against the rail, I could clearly see his face run the whole gamut of emotion: fear, hesitation, regret, slight tears, and then suddenly slight anger. In one quick movement, he ripped the little photo to shreds and threw it off. We watched the little pieces flutter off into the wind.

"Will that help me get over him?" he asked after a while, completely missing the symbolism.

"Who knows," I answered, "but at least you won't be looking at him every few minutes."

…and with that I put my arm around him, we went to get a latte, and the little bits of photo got lost in the foamy white bubbles.