And I hate it. I hate it because I know I should get over it. It's not like she died, she just stopped talking to me. I'm obsessing over little things now, over things I said or did, wondering if they were what ultimately caused this.

I know this is not the case. I know this is a result of her neurosis and her 'better' half's jealous nature. I know this. I KNOW this. And yet I can't seem to wrap my mind around it.

I want a chance to have my say. I want to go there, to where they work, walk in, get in their faces, see how they would react if I appeared unbidden, without their permission. I want to pull the rug out from under them, to make them feel like this, to be the one to end it. On my terms.

I won't, though. I am respecting what she asked for. I am giving her space, time to get a handle on his emotions. Time to convince him that she doesn't love her friends more than him. That he's the only person in her life, the only one that matters, the only one who can make her feel loved and special and whole.

My Southern politeness takes over at the worst times, when it should be the New York bitch, walking into the room and stealing back my friend. I personally blame it on the exorbitant amounts of grits and catfish, fried chicken livers and cornbread, consumed during my developmental years. You are what you eat, afterall.