You stand there with that round suitcase you bought, just like Madonna’s in ‘Desperately Seeking Susan’ and I think ‘God, I’m usually the one being dumped’. This time though I’m the one saying, ‘It’s not you it’s me’ and ‘we can still be friends’, and we both know I’m lying. You smile and say, “fine… that's fine”.

There are circles under your eyes from crying and your shoulders are rounded. You pull the ring from your finger, “You’d better have this”, you say, “it cost a lot”. I shake my head embarrassed, but you put it on the side anyway.

I think back to the day I first saw you, drinking a Starbucks. You saw me looking and smiled. You had your hair short, but in a fun, funky way, and you weren’t wearing a bra. I could see the roundness of your breasts under the white tee shirt you had on, and could see your nipples firm when I smiled back. “I’m waiting for a friend,” you said and invited me over. We shared a huge muffin, bought more coffee, and talked about music and dreams and how you wanted to become famous selling your clothes.

Within a month you’d moved into my flat and life was great. We smoked, drank, had pornographic sex, and partied till dawn at weekends.

But now I see you with the one suitcase and you look nearly broken. “My Dad… he’ll come for my…” You gesture around the room vaguely.

“Great, yeah that’ll be…”

You pick up the case and make for the door.

“Julie”.

“What?” you say, and I can tell by your tone that I’ve given you false hope. Stupid of me.

“Nothing. Just… you’ll be ok?”

You walk to me, plant a soft red circle of lipstick on my cheek.

“I’ll be fine,” you whisper, then go and unlatch the door.

“See you around,” I say.