On the eighth day of March, you break up with your girlfriend—or try to.

“Today of all days” is what she first says. Then, two seconds later: “You don’t know what today is, do you? You have no idea.”

You rummage around in your old, cobwebbed brain. You played football in school, from seven till senior year, and are secretly convinced you’ve been living with a TBI.

When you told your first girlfriend, the summer after graduation, she gave you a tight-lipped smile and said, “Well, that explains a lot.”

When you told your second girlfriend, two years after that, she said to go to a doctor. You broke up with her—not because of that, necessarily, though you’ll admit the thought of going to a doctor’s office made your brain start hurting again.

When you told this girlfriend, the girl you’re trying to turn into your third ex, she said, “I hate football. It’s stupid and toxic and anti-feminist.”

You asked how football could be anti-feminist. She said if she had to explain, you were just as bad.

“As what?” you asked.

“As football.” She paused. “Let’s get takeout tonight.”

“I knew it,” she says now. “You’re such a buffoon.”

I want to break up, you say in your head. You said it before, just less succinctly.

“Today,” she says, “is International Women’s Day. You can’t break up with me on International Women’s Day.”

“Is it illegal?” you ask.

The regret is instant. Her eyes burn so brightly, you think you might catch fire.

“I hate you,” she says.

“Great. Then let’s break up.”

She ignores you, her arms folded across her chest. Her teeth scrape her lip. Her eyes turn to slits.

“This is about Elsie,” she says. “It is, isn’t it?”

You close your eyes, willing yourself out of existence.

She never liked Elsie. Said she was too young. Your girlfriend criticized people for all kinds of reasons, but too young was a first.

“There’s no reason for a grown man to talk to a little girl,” your girlfriend explained.

“She’s my niece,” you replied.

“And she’s young,” she shot back.

“It’s not about Elsie,” you tell your girlfriend.

“Yeah, right,” she says. “It’s always about her.”

Before, when you were single, you watched Elsie every Friday. You took her to the park. To the movies. The mall. You never got tired of hearing her laugh, the sound like bubbles blown from a plastic wand. Every time you met, you’d ask, “How’s my favorite lady?”

She would titter at that, like a small, precious bird.

Naturally, your girlfriend was not a fan of your routine.

“It’s creepy,” your girlfriend said. “It gives off incestuous vibes.”

“Inces—”

You stopped; one hand clapped over your mouth. You couldn’t bring yourself to say the whole word. Not that it mattered; your girlfriend just kept on talking.

“She’s my family,” you said when she finally shut up for once.

Your girlfriend frowned. “So am I.”

The argument you had that day seemed to last for years. At one point, you even claimed she was supporting toxic masculinity.

“If you were really a feminist,” you vaguely recall saying, “you would be happy I can play horsey with my niece without feeling emasculated.”

Her response: “Is that what you men call it nowadays? ‘Playing horsey’?”

When you first started dating, you were just so naïve. You honestly thought she and Elsie would get along. You kept imagining yourself saying, “I have two favorite ladies.”

Instead, you were made to choose: your girlfriend or your niece.

It hits you, not for the first time, that you definitely chose wrong.

“You know what?” your girlfriend says, raising her hands in surrender. “No. Just no. We’re not doing this today.”

“Doing what?” you asked. “Doing when? What the hell’s happening?”

She shakes her head. “No breakup. Not now. Not today, of all days.”

Then when? you want to ask. Please explain what’s going on. Slowly.

“I want to break up,” you tell her.

“Let’s go to dinner,” she replies.

You get in the car and take her to Salt & Boca. Throughout the whole meal, you say a total of eight words: “lasagna,” “check, please,” and “thank you. That was good.”

When you take your girlfriend home, you say, “I want to break up.”

“Tomorrow,” she says.

Then she slams the car door.

On the ninth day of March, the day after International Women’s Day, your girlfriend breaks up with you. She does so successfully, almost emotionlessly, then gets upset with you for not bursting into tears or begging for her to take you back.

“A real man would cry,” she coldly informs you.

“Then I guess,” you say, “you should find yourself a real man.”

She makes you drive her home, her eyes on her phone the whole ride. After dropping her off at her building’s porte-cochère, you head back to your place and toss your jacket on a chair. Then you pick up your phone and dial a familiar number. You can’t remember much—maybe it’s the TBI—but this sequence of digits is burned into your brain.

“Hello?” a voice says. “Is it really you?”

“Can you please put her on? Just for a minute?”

The resulting pause feels longer than all your relationships combined.

A sigh. Then static. Then a quiet “Hello?”

You let out a breath. “How’s my favorite lady?”

A gasp. Then a giggle. Your heart nearly breaks. You missed so much of her life already: Christmas, New Year’s, and, worst of all, her birthday.

“I’m good,” she says, “but I miss my horsey.”

Your shoulders sink. Your eyes burn. “Your horsey misses you too. Do you think he could see you again sometime soon?”

“Yes!” she exclaims; she has a slight lisp. “Yes, he neigh.”

She laughs at her own joke. You laugh along with her.

You love her so much. Your favorite lady.