She stared tepidly down at the dregs of coffee in the bottom of her mug. Swirling it around, she watched how the blackness splashed against the sides, making stains on the grainy beige ceramic. She gazed deep into the abyss. How enthralling, she though. It’s Thanksgiving and here I am, washed up as some 24 hours coffee shop that can’t even afford to put soap into the dispenser.

“I don’t know why I even bother,” she muttered to herself. At the table beside her, a crouched old man looked up suddenly, as if she had broken his trance.

Groaning slightly, she pulled herself from the chair and walked to her car. It was raining softly and the drops were rolling down the side of her windows. Lovely weather, she thought bitterly to herself.

There was clutter everywhere. Boxes of clothes, pictures, and Christmas decorations resided in the back seat. There was a pile of library books sitting on the passenger side, all of them at least a week overdue. A single piece of crumpled paper was on top of them. She remembered walking into the apartment and spotting in on their table.

His table now.

It read;

Dearest,
As per our conversation last night, I think it would be better for both of us if you leave. I’m sorry things turned out the way they did. Hopefully we can still be friends.
Love always.

She couldn’t believe it. Yes, she would be friends with him. They would talk about the candidates for mayor, weather, and how the latest brand of paper towels absorbed more than ever before. What a joke.

It was a mystery to her what it was that turned men off so much. Looking in the mirror she seemed to be attractive enough. Her blond hair settled lightly on her shoulders; she was tall, but not too tall. She considered herself rather nice looking. It must be something else.

One of her windshield wipers was broken. It would regularly streak the window, then come back and erase what it had just created. Ironic, she thought, that she was also broken in this way.

As she was driving the rain began to subside. The early morning dawn cast greyish shadows over the southern Ontario countryside. Although the bitterness in her was still there, the rhythm of the wheels on the wet pavement was numbing it, pushing it deeper into her soul. This was now a part of her, as important as the intricate whorls on her fingertips. This was just another chapter in her story, another page in her life. She had been here before, been broken like this. But sometimes, broken things could never be mended.