I am mourning the breakup of a relationship. A relationship that has lasted more than 9 years. A relationship with a local breakfast joint.

I've gone to this place for breakfast since my early days in law school. It's a roadside diner, no smoking, decent basics, with decor that hasn't changed since Rick Springfield topped the charts and jelly bracelets were all the rage.

Beto and I went for breakfast recently. We plopped ourselves down on the red marble vinyl booth cushions that had just enough duct tape to simultaneously rip and bind whatever you might be wearing on the bottom half of your body. As we looked over the menu, Beto announced, "Here comes your boyfriend."

Now, this "boyfriend" was obviously nothing of the sort... in fact, he was the guy we'd typically try to avoid. He's the guy you look at with a curious head tilt and think, "hmmm... I could picture him in the news for boiling bunnies and stowing away the neighbor's body parts in his basement freezer."

Beto calls him my "boyfriend" because one day, EIGHT YEARS AGO, he presented me with a belgian waffle, topped with a heart made out of whipped cream.

Now, I have to admit, that it takes a remarkable sum of cajones to present a woman with a whipped cream heart when it's obvious that the love of her life has joined her for breakfast. So, I had to assume that he did the same for all the ladies, and didn't make much of it.

After we ordered on this recent Saturday, I said to Beto, "You MUST knock off the boyfriend thing. That was EIGHT YEARS AGO." And I was so consumed by the concept that I failed to order the waffle sans EasyWhip.

And 'lo and behold, here comes my boyfriend, with another belgian waffle with a whipped cream heart.