It wasn't really a cataclysmic event. I just looked up from my sushi dinner and told my date I didn't believe in love anymore.
"I don't believe in love anymore."
I felt the words, each a separate shape that hooked onto the one next to it, as they left my mouth. The words hung, in an eternally awkward moment of silence. The sentence fidgeted, scuffed one toe against the other and bashfully tried to insert itself back between my lips.
My date looked concerned.
"Since when?" he asked.
I shrugged and said nothing else until we got home. Home that is not my home anymore. Home that marks the absence of a geriatric cat. Home that I am sad, no glad, no sad, no glad, to leave. I brushed and flossed, stared at my new, not-believing-in-love face in the mirror, made aquaintance with eyes that no longer glistened with suspended disbelief.
"How do you feel?" He asked.
"I think you still believe in love." He said as I crawled into his lap.
But I feel empty. Like a cup that is about to be filled, but never is.