I used to be a hopeless romantic (keyword, hopeless.) but then Nick happened. I met him in college. Even though he was a womanizing, sexist pig I went for him. He was charming as hell and so hot. Call me crazy, but I fell for his act. We dated for all four years.

We were in love, or so I thought…

He took me on one of the nicest restaurants in New York. We sat down and ordered some water. I sipped on it anxiously. When the waiter came back, Nick ordered us some red wine. Before the waiter could bring our drinks, he told me what he brought me here for.

"Connie, there's something I need to tell you. I'm breaking up with you." He said.

I couldn't speak. I stared at him. He looked uncomfortable, not remorseful. When the waiter brought our drinks, he asked for the check. That asshole! I gave him four years of my life and this is what I get? I told myself not to get angry. But, unfortunately, that went out the window.

"You son of a bitch!" I splashed my water in his face. I was beyond devastated.

But, all that's behind me now. Romance is nonexistent in my life. Sure, I've met a few men since then, but I never got too close. It hurts less that way and I'm better off. It might be a cynical way to live, especially considering I'm usually an optimist. It's a justifiable contradiction to me. I hoped my job would make up for all of this heartbreak. I was good at burying myself in my work and that's what I did. A few years passed and finally by that time I was completely over that rat. I'd gotten into a rhythm. All I did was work. Though, on occasion I went for a drink with the few friends that had stuck with me. I never really cut loose. Until one day…