It was over. He could see that. Stared him right in the face. Time after time he’d tried to fix it. Bought flowers, rings. Would pay for dinners when there was no money in the bank; like magic.

She broke the news to him. It was right after they’d watched a movie together. Casablanca with Bogart and Bergman. It was their favorite movie. Or, so he thought. She confessed to him later that she hated the film.

Casablanca? he asked. How does anyone hate Casablanca? This relationship should’ve been over years ago, he said. Nobody hates Casablanca. It’s un-American, he lit a cigarette. Took a drink of whiskey.

I just don’t like old movies, she said. Never have. And you’ve forced me all these years to watch them, she downed a shot. Casablanca, Maltese Falcon, The Big Sleep, all of em, she yelled. All of em are terrible.

He was broken hearted. Not because she was breaking up with him. But, because the whole thing was a lie. It was something he believed in whole-heartedly. He lived in a black and white world. Complete with old jazz playing in the background. He thought she was a part of that.

Oh well. Here’s looking at you kid.