I

Dearest Ernest,

Yes, today you are Ernest because today that is who I need you to be. Serious, dedicated to my every word, and sensitive to my mood.

My heart has been squished, dearest. Most dreadfully squished.
Yes, yes, I hear you. Broken is the proper term, you say, but broken is not at all what I mean.

I don't mean the irreparable squished of roadkill. I mean damage to the nerves. The kind that's not enough to completely sever them or interrupt their natural transformation of the senses to the brain the way breakage might. I mean the ever-present, dull throbbing pain that sharpens when you lean a certain way, that keeps from inhibiting la vie quotidienne, yet serves as a constant reminder a half brained blunder.

Sudden, nay, even expected death of a loved one may break a heart.
The inclination of a significant other for philandering, for preferring your sister or best friend, for choosing to spend a romantic night with a video game console - when the offense is repeated - may break a heart.

My heart is not broken, treasured Ernest. My heart is merely squished.
You see, darling, the entities that break a heart come from without a person's body. He or she has no ability to prevent the clandestine shattering while I, on the other hand, have had ample opportunity to curb this unnecessary hurt.

Don't you see, darling. I've brought this upon myself. I said before, Miss Melody, you'll be sorry if you involve yourself with the likes of him.
Tall, handsome, smart, charming.
He'll win his way into your heart if you're not careful, and it won't mean a thing to him.
That's what I said, and I let it happen anyway. I let that tiny shred of hope glimmer through the cast-iron gates of my heart, and he did just what I expected. Serves me right.

So you see Ernest, my heart's not broken. Merely squished.

If you might perchance attain some sense, Ernest, I would be delighted if you would read these words aloud with a British accent.

Yours,

Mel