Smile like you mean it

To my right, a streak of moonlight cuts across the sapphire waters of the San Francisco Bay. In my rearview mirror, the sky deepens into orange.

Save some face, you know you've only got one.

Change your ways while you're young.

I'm flying across the Richmond-San Rafael bridge, singing with the Killers. But in my mind, I'm sitting in my ex-boyfriend's car, three years ago. Smile like you mean it.

"This is my favorite Killers song," he announces, backing his bright blue Acura out of his parking spot. The car squeals and cuts an arc, almost hitting his motorbike. He drives like he lives -- recklessly, arrogantly, selfishly -- cursing at other drivers behind his Oakley sunglasses, running red lights, careening down city streets.

And someone will drive her around, the same streets that I did.

I've been driving around the same streets with someone else for the past eight months. Someone who never tells me I'm "too emotional" when I cry, whether from joy or frustration. Someone who listens intently to my incessant questions -- Why do humans have to eat three times a day? Isn't that inefficient? Why do we need sleep? And to my delights: I saw a baby snake outside the office today!

So, why is it, when someone from your past hurts you unforgivably, a part of you feels nostalgic when reminded of him? A song. A blue Acura. The Thai restaurant you ducked into during a rainstorm, where he kissed you, wiped the rain from your cheeks and whispered, "I've never been so happy to be caught in a storm."