A friend from work was moving from her place in Chicago Heights to Skokie. So we drove out to her apartment and helped her pack, after opening a bottle of wine. Then we decided to go out to the neighboring town, Flossmoor. We came here because it’s a good place for casual food and drinks. It’s like a family-style place. So, we arrive and begin a beer sampler, which I did not need because of all the wine. I remembered that I had dated a guy from Flossmoor, and as we kept drinking I kept getting more and more nostalgic about him. I was thinking to myself, “Well, there’s a bunch of people here of all ages–somebody must know him.” So I started shouting out his name in a very loud voice: “Peter, Peter, where are you? Are you here? Where did you go?” A couple of guys sitting at the next table said, “Who’s Peter?” and I said, “Someone I dated ten years ago for a few months. He’s a pothead motherfucker, and I wanna know where he is right now! You’re from Flossmoor, don’t ya know him?” Before they could answer I’m yelling “Peter, Peter” again at the top of my voice. My friend somehow distracted me with her own heartbreak stories and quickly got me out of there. The next day, after I apologized, she said, “Don’t worry, I’m moving. We’re never going back there.”

–Sarah Brett, eye technician