You blocked me before I blocked you. Yes, I was curious. No, I didn't want you back. I wanted to see what the baby looked like, if there was still going to be a baby, if the baby had come yet, into the world from somewhere else, heaven- you’d say, because you believe in that now, and you’d say it was meant to be, written, declared, shouted, praised, and no hard feelings, but you had to block me. The happiest we ever were was when you used to bring me coffee on your morning outings. You didn't have to work until later in the day, so you went out to buy cigarettes and get yourself a bagel with cream cheese and got me a caramel macchiato and a chocolate donut with sprinkles. I’d drop fifteen pounds after we separated. And then you’d come home and I’d be doing my hair or packing my lunch and when I drove to school I was so happy that you had done something for me, for us, and I looked at the coffee in the cup holder and it gave me hope, so much delusional hope, that things would get better. On Wednesday nights after temple I got sushi and a Coke and a package of Reese’s that I’d freeze until hours after I ate dinner and I’d enjoy it watching TV or standing in the kitchen with one leg straight, one foot perched on the other knee, like a flamingo, and I’d wonder where you were, if you were coming home, if you were staying out because you didn't want to fight or be wrong or have to be there, and sometimes I’d stand on the steps and look for lights, and the chocolate would melt onto my fingers and at least I tried to give myself something sweet.