I should have known better than to clean my apartment.

                Besides the tediousness of the task, I also got the brilliant idea to unpack the boxes that had not been unpacked when I moved in a year and a half ago. Laying at the bottom of one box was the thing I didn’t want to see.

                A hat.

                It wasn’t a terribly interesting hat: a dark green ski cap, not terribly comfortable, but highly useful in keeping one’s head warm. I had buried it in the bottom of this box in the hopes that I would forget. But I could never forget.

                I had met Ian on a cold Friday night in November. Weeks before I had been left high and dry and asking why by someone who said he’d loved me. Turns out that he lied, and rather than doing the smart, mature thing and swearing off of men entirely, I had done the opposite: tried to find someone to take his place. I wanted to feel loved, but the lies and rejections were adding up and wearing me down. I sought solace on a step that led to the side entrance of a building. I sat there feeling sorry for myself when he walked by.

                “Smile,” he said to me as he passed, “it gets better.”

                “Fuck you!” I replied as he walked past me.

                “You know I’m right,” he called over his shoulder.

                “Yeah, sure,” I said, “That’s what they all say.”