At Glen Oak restaurant, before class, I let him pay.
In my parents' basement, after I bought him spinal tap on dvd for Christmas.
In the church bathroom, his friend told me that he didn't want to, in case "someone better came along."
In the old Camry, after the second day of the first Pitchfork, for someone new.
In the Starbucks parking lot in a town between ours, he gave me two boxes of chocolates, I didn't cry.
On the phone, me in Bughouse Square, him down South, the first of a few sad and desperate phone calls.
In his apartment, after I introduced myself to his doorman.
In my second Ukrainian Village apartment, he laughed and said, "you're not done," but I was.
In his Lakeview apartment at 3 am, he handed me my purse and I refused his cab fare.
In text, after trying and failing to do it in person, the day after I bought him that huge croissant.