How to Tell if You Have the Face of My Ex

by Jess Nicol

You notice me one day (or, maybe, on multiple days), standing across the street from you, and when we lock eyes, I quickly look away, dart down the sidewalk, and cower behind a streetlamp or tree. Once I’ve surreptitiously peeked at you for long enough, squinted my glasses into a more magnifying prescription, and determined you are, in fact, not my ex, I will saunter from behind the tree and casually scroll through my phone, while also periodically lifting my head to grin out at the world around me, like the relaxed individual I am.

My blank, name-only LinkedIn account pops up on the list of who’s viewing your page, many, many times before I realize I am logged in. I showed your headshot to everyone at work. And some friends. And a few relatives at my cousin Kay’s wedding over the weekend because everyone kept asking about my ex—“how are you managing since the, uh, split?; must be tough, you being here, you sitting here, alone, all alone, without X, especially since everyone loved X so much, like loved X; a shame. A damned shame. Your Aunt Hettie and I really thought X was The One, you know” and so forth—and after the completely-normal-and-not-excessive amount of $2 gins I consumed, I felt I had no other recourse for deflection.

If I’m not watching where I’m going and bump into you as I race toward the bus stop, I will yelp loudly, drop an overfilled bag of groceries, awkwardly fumble my oranges, discount tofu, organic kefir, Reese’s Pieces, frozen tater tots, frozen peas, coffee grounds, V8 juice, and hemp granola back into their sack, and hurry up the bus steps mumbling a mortified apology.

On the statistically improbable chance I stroll out the door of your favorite bar just as you arrive, my intoxicated friend catches your eye and yells, “DUDE, you look like my friend’s EX. Like, RECENT ex, man.” You’ll see me only for a moment, as I yank my arm free from his grasp and escape into the night.

One evening, you enter the bookstore I work at, and I appear briefly startled. But, my face regains its calm, neutral expression as you begin to browse, because I know, of course, that you’re not my ex. My ex a) never reads books, b) does not enjoy running into me, and c) would never be caught dead in the poetry section. I try to take a photo of you while you pay, since I’m basically right there, restocking the Europa shelf left of the till, but my phone isn’t on silent and the shutter sound ricochets off the wooden floor below me. I rapidly turn and make my way toward a door that says “staff only,” phone in hand. “Let me just check, Sarah,” I holler backwards at the cashier, “I took a pic of the cover!”

People occasionally mistake you for someone else when they first see you, and, lately, a few of them ask if you know me. You’ve started to reply that, weirdly, you do, or at least sort of…

You fall deep into an internet search, and find yourself scrolling through my old Facebook pics. As you pause on one of me and my ex, a barista places your latte beside the laptop and says “cute pic. I see you both in here a lot, but didn’t realize you’re a thing,” and you gaze at her in confusion for a second. As she walks away, you lower your face closer to the screen and study my ex’s nose, cheekbones, eyelashes.

Once we’ve repeatedly run into each other all over the downtown core, you ask me to grab tea one day soon, and my response is to say no, immediately, and explain that you’re simply too much my type, physically.

After 7 months of us dating, my mother still slips up and calls you my ex’s name nearly every time you and I meet her for lunch at that bistro she likes, over by your friend Keith’s place, where you always order the same spicy ravioli with anchovies and a side salad.