It's been a month and she's already burned all of the things he gave her (except the ring, the t-shirts and the Star Wars original-from-the-seventies pillowcase – they are too valuable).

There's one moment when we both stop talking to watch the guy at the microwave, who is not paying attention to his popcorn, but having a conversation with someone getting cream and sugar for their coffee. The popcorn is just starting to burn. We can both smell it.

A crash of thunder stops the conversation again. We watch the rain in silence.

"So what you're saying is you want him to be miserable and full of regret?" I ask.

"I was the best fucking thing that happened to him," she says.

I nod wisely, absently, my eyes on the black mound of burnt microwave popcorn the guy two tables away is starting to eat. The smell alone is enough to make any sane person sick.

He's wearing a string tie, though, which explains a lot.

Amanda keeps on talking, but I'm really thinking about books and the evil curse of wonderful memories – like my best friend who is now just one of those memories.

Is it my fault he stopped speaking to me?