OUT OF A FOG, by Barb GoffmanMy boyfriend dumped me a week before Thanksgiving. It felt like a Mack truck slammed into me, and after I skidded across the pavement, leaving behind torn flesh and what remained of my heart, it kept on coming, rolling right over me. First the front tires, huge and heavy, their treads filled with razor-sharp pebbles. Then the back ones, too, ensuring I was good and flattened.
“It’s not you,” he said. “It’s me.” That old cliché.
We were sitting on my bed. A light snow was falling outside—unusual for November in Ann Arbor. But then, nothing was normal that night. The swirling flakes seemed to dance in the glow of a nearby streetlamp, taunting me with their joy.
“I don’t understand.” My voice quivered. “You love me. I know you do.”
Three years we’d been togeth
