On New Year’s Eve, I stalk my ex-girlfriend on Facebook. I evaluate her new beau in parts. The whole is too much. His hands are manageable. Do they look stronger than mine did, around her waist, casual but confident? Do those fingers get her up and over the hump again, and again, and again? What about his loafers? How can he think it’s appropriate to wear the same shoes for the family Christmas photo and for their annual holiday trip to Kyoto? Bad taste—he’s a cheap one. Do you only own one pair of shoes, my friend? I imagine the blisters he must’ve had. Speaking broken Japanese, bartering for band aids and antibiotic ointment. There’s nothing sexy about getting undressed under the cool hotel room sheets and watching flecks of scarlet stain the lower-fourth.

But the ones where they only feed me the crumbs—God, those are the worst. I want to be served the full picture and to slice it into thin, available slices. I don’t want to guess if the masculine shape in the corner of the pottery studio is her brother glazing a pot for a Sibs-Night-Out or him taking his time at the wheel. I bet he takes his time. He thinks he has forever. He doesn’t change the radio station when the ballads come on, because they can’t touch him. They slide right off that four-pack. He lets her wander away at the Trader Joes. There is no question in his mind that they’ll find each other again in front of the dairy aisle, and she’ll say, “Oh I was looking for you!” and he’ll go pull out his massive credit card and massive dick and maybe they’ll have sex right there, in front of the probiotic yogurt and alternative butter.

And he’s right. He keeps his posts with her to a minimum. Work party flicks, one couple’s pic on her birthday. Classy. She lays it out for all of us. Cheeky living room moments, with two wine glasses and an almost complete game of Double Klondike and It’s a Wonderful Life in the background. Slightly smudged lipstick in a selfie. Eyes giggling. She thinks she’s in on an inside joke. I want to shout in her face. IT’S HAPPENING TO YOU! But it’s her turn. I’ve already ripped off my fingernails and deleted my calculator app and eaten too much cottage cheese. I’ve let the ballads pummel me. You’re up, baby!