She stretched out her long legs gingerly, wincing as pain lanced up from her knee. She felt too old. She had only just graduated college, and she felt like an old woman in body and in mind. She was safe no longer, as much as she wished she could be. She was done with the world of school. She was in the real world now, and in the real world things happened. But she knew that already. She had made a big mistake. She knew that much for certain.

Was it too late to change what she had done? As she stared at her pale, faint reflection in the windowpane, she sighed. It was too late, and even if it hadn’t been... much as it had hurt them both to admit it, she had made the right choice. They hadn’t been right for each other; it had only been their shared feelings of helplessness and frustration that brought them together in the hope that they could make each other’s pain go away. It hadn’t worked.

She shook her head mournfully, watching her reflected image do the same as if scolding her. She wished she could take credit for being so cunning. She had used the woman who was now her ex, and orchestrated virtually every move within their relationship. That was the way it seemed, looking back from a distance of months that felt like a chasm of eons. Had she been so callous as she appeared? If so, what did that say about her? What did that say about either of them, when it came down to it?

She rested her chin in her cupped hands. Not for the first time, she wondered how the other woman was doing. She had resisted the temptation to call or write; she knew there were ways to get in touch. She was also certain that if they were to converse, things would come up that were best forgotten. What they had had been pretty good, but it hadn’t been what they thought it was. She was sure of that now, though she had yet to to experience true love. She had a better idea of what it should feel like, and they hadn’t had it.

That didn’t stop her from imagining. She could almost see her ex’s dark hair resting against a pillow, a smile pulling out her dimples and a laugh coming from her throat; someone else was there too, though they were vague and shadowy in form. Or maybe she was alone, lost in thought... perhaps even thinking about her...

She threw off the train of thought. With a groan more suited to a seventy-year-old grandmother, she got out of the chair, clutching at its back with a white-knuckled hand while the other blindly sought her crutches. She found them, but not before a heart-stopping thirty seconds passed. Slowly, but with the ease of experience, she propped herself up. A strand of ash blonde hair fell into her eyes; annoyed, she moved it with a puff of breath. Before it could distract her further, she limped to the telephone and called for takeout.

Time passed. The food arrived. She thanked him, paid him, and threw in a larger tip than was called for, considering that it was a beautiful night. She put the bag down on a table and slid it along, doing what she could to transport both herself and the food. It took too long for her; not for the first time, she wished that she hadn’t done something as stupid as tear her ACL... again. If she hadn’t, though, would she and Svetlana have had what they had?

Shrugging it off, Shea Ralph settled down for another lonely night.

She was profoundly unimpressed with the view out the window. She’d seen better and prettier in her travels, and few women fresh out of college could claim the same frequent flier mileage that she could. She grasped her water glass half-heartedly, feeling it slip from her fingers, knowing it was going to spill even before it hit the table. Waiters tried to apologize to her, but she didn’t hear their high pleading voices.

Going out like this had been a risk in more ways than one. Her foot was still tender, and if she damaged it any further, she was going to get it from both her current coach and her former coach. But it also reminded her too much of what she had lost. Her eyes shone for a moment as she thought of the blonde she still harbored feelings for, foolish as they might be.

Where was her ex this night? Did the same stars shine down on her as had once glimmered in her eyes? Was she alone and thinking, or was there someone new in her life to take away the sting? As she put her chin in her hand and stared blankly out the window, she wished that things hadn’t fallen apart the way they had. They had shared something deep and powerful, or at least she had thought before being told otherwise.

She understood now that it was over, in a way she hadn’t before. But that didn’t mean that she couldn’t wish it wasn’t over. She missed having someone. Sometimes at night, she reached over expecting to touch bare skin or feel silky soft hair, but there was nothing, as hard as she looked. She had managed to scare off more than one roommate already.

Of course, there was always the possibility of a one-night stand or something like that. A couple of women had made overtures in that direction, but she had refused. She wasn’t ready for that. She didn’t know if she was ready for anything, and that bothered her. It had meant a lot to her that a homegrown and stunningly attractive teammate had taken her in and cared for her. And she had thought that meeting the family hinted at something more serious. As she had so quickly discovered, though, she had been wrong.

She wondered what had changed as her hands, desperate for something to fiddle with, picked up the butter knife and rolled it back and forth in her palm. Or had anything changed at all, except her perception? Her mouth puckered up in displeased fashion, forcing her dimples to the fore. It hurt being the dumpee. Possibly it also hurt being the dumper, but she wouldn’t know about that.

A waiter brought her a tray of bread; she nodded thanks and placed her order. Not for the first time, she wondered why Shea had really done it- not what she had said, but what she hadn’t said. What had she done to change what they had shared? Or was it something else? Was Shea embarrassed to be associated with her? She shook off the train of thought; it would get her nowhere. It was all she could do to hold back bitter laughter at this situation. She shouldn’t have had to be alone, and yet she was alone, sitting at a small corner table in Minneapolis. Or maybe it was St. Paul; at times she was convinced it didn’t matter anyway. And it was two months to the day after she had been cruelly broken up with. The waiter’s quick return drew her partially out of her thoughts, and Elvis loud on the jukebox finished the job.

Shrugging it off, Svetlana Abrosimova settled down for another lonely night.