On February 13, 1998, I drove up to Gainesville, Florida from Miami after work in preparation for a weekend visit to my long-distance girlfriend as well as a consultation with my graduate advisor. I had planned a nice evening out with my girlfriend for the next day, following a stop-off at a friend's birthday party. I had high hopes that we'd have a nice intimate weekend with one another.

As we waited for the meal to arrive, we talked about the various things that were happening with our lives--the details that don't come readily when exchanging email or instant messages. I talked briefly of my job, and the boring minutiae of my days in Miami. She told me a short story about one of her classmates, who had asked about our relationship. She recounted the details of that conversation, how her classmate had asked if we were still together. I asked for more detail on her answer.

"Well, I told her that we're not."

I would glance at my watch then, and see the clock hands near vertical, the longer one just slightly past the shorter one. I've convinced myself that I'm the first person in the Eastern timezone to be dumped on that Valentine's Day, some eleven years ago.

If only because it makes for a more interesting story.