Me: Listen, I’ve been doing some thinking. This was a really hard choice but… I think we need to break up.
Food: (stunned) Break up? What are you talking about? You were so happy at breakfast. You practically humped my waffles.
Me: I know, that’s the thing. I’m happy when I’m with you. Probably happier than with anyone else in the world. But afterward, I feel awful. Not just gassy but guilty. I have to slink home with garlic breath of shame.
Food: Wow. I had no idea. (then, worried) Have you always felt this way?
Me: No, no, babe, of course not. Back in my twenties, I could be with you all I wanted and I’d feel great after. I’d feel alive.
Food: (nostalgic, devilish) Remember that one night? With the bacon cannolis? The chili dog…s plural?
Me: I will never forget that time. But I was a different person then. With a much faster metabolism. Now when we spend time together, I still feel you with me for days after. Spooning my saddlebags. Snuggling my cellulite. It’s like I can’t define myself apart from you.
Food: Come on, this is crazy talk. We’re so good together. How about we go have a nice dinner. You can have all the carbs you want. There’s heavy cream in my fridge. Already opened. (whispers in my ear) You can sip straight from the container.
(I reel, visibly wooed.)
Food: Then you’ll pass out in that sexy little food coma way you do and in the morning, we’ll talk and I bet this will all blow over when you realize what a ridiculous idea this is —
(I push Food away.)
Me: NO! You don’t get it. I own summer and winter-weight Spanx now because of you. Every one of my white shirts is splotched with your unctuous grilled cheese jizz. You distract me from literally everything I need to get done in life. I can’t do us anymore. Not like this. I’m sorry, Food, it’s just not working for me.
(Food grabs me by the shoulders, desperate.)
Food: Please. No one’s ever loved me like you. No one inhales me with as much abandon as you — at parties, funerals, in the back of Ubers. You practically motorboat my mashed potatoes. I’ll never find someone who loves me like you. Never!
(Food pulls me close. We hug passionately.)
Me: (mid-hug, tempted, pained) Mmm, you smell like… prosciutto.
(We go in to kiss but I abruptly pull away.)
Me: I can’t. I’m sorry. This has to be goodbye. I love you, Food. I always will. But it’s over.
(Food recoils, hurt.)
Food: So what? You’re going to go cold turkey? Just completely cut me out of your life? Who will you stress eat without me? You have any idea how much harder it’ll be to get your work done without an open bag of my tortilla chips, party-size mind you, and vat of guac at your side? Any idea?
Me: I’ll need to see you sometimes, of course. Our relationship will have to be different, that’s all. I’ll meet you for celery and tangerine-flavored seltzer. We can have a meal together once a week. Like supermodels do.
Food: Whoa. Okay. You’ve really thought this through, huh? Really crossed every T. Just gonna walk out on me and my double-chocolate mousse cups and never look back, huh?
(Food casts a hopeful sideways glance to see if I’m biting. I’m not. Food breaks down in quiet sobs.)
Me: (softly) Hey. It’ll be okay. You’ll find someone. Maybe not right away but someday. You’ll meet some donut enthusiast or taco snob and won’t even remember my name.
(Food lays his head on my shoulder, resigned but gutted. I cradle Food lovingly.)
Me: I’m sorry but this is for the best…butt I can have at my age. I’m going to miss us so much.
Food: Me too, babe. So damn much.
Me: You’ll always be my first true love.
Food: You’ll always be mine.
(I leave. Food watches me go, forlorn, defeated. Until a small smile spreads across Food’s face as the thought dawns…)
Food: (to self) This isn’t over. She’ll be back.