Does the beginning foreshadow the end of things?

"So yeah, we broke up." I notice she isn't clutching a drink in her hand and find it odd.
"Oh really...I didn't realize that you guys were together", I reply and immediately remember that it isn't true. There was this one time at a ladies night at Dominicks on Beverly ("Ladies night" are nine times out of ten held at Italian restaurants for the excuse to order carbs and cheese. Sushi spots are the second choice if we're feeling especially virtuous but then we get crispy rice and spicy tuna and that really isn't low calorie now is it ladies) when she walked by us on her way out with his beefy self following close behind. The lack of hand holding was immediately obvious to everyone and after a brief hello she sauntered away, him following her dutifully like a bodyguard.
"Yeah it was a couple of months", she sighed and raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and brushed aside a few honey colored strands. I get distracted by her perfectly colored hair (or heaven's is it REAL?) and then remember to focus, she's probably still feeling a little bruised.
She continues, "It's funny. Last Saturday night? After the party? We ended up in the same group that went to a strip club."
"A strip club?"
"Yeah, Crazy Girls. An asshole was this far from my face", she measures a six inch space from her eye for effect.
"Jesus."
"Yeah, the funny thing is...is that that's how we started...we both ended up at a strip club and afterwards I went for it."
Turns out beautiful women get their heart broken too. The ex in question runs with a notorious circle that seem to revel in fraternity/Ari Gold cliches- measuring their worth by the circumference of their bicep and the prestige of their client list.The sad reality is that just the facade of alpha masculinity is enough to fool most.
"Those guys are the worst", I reply. I can just see them now, flipping off dollar bills from their latest bonuses at naked women thinking that because they pay they have the power.
"Yeah, the funny thing is that is they are so loyal to each other. It's their ladies that get screwed over."
"They're probably secretly fucking each other."
We share a mournful laugh. I look into the bottom of my vodka-cranberry-soda for answers. Finding none, we avoid eye contact and look at everyone else, having fun.

deprived

My body is betraying me. Saturday night sleeps are always an unreliable lot- they're either disrupted by too many glasses of Sauvignon Blanc drying out my bloodstream or other festivities extending way past  my normal knock out time leaving me fitful and restless once I hit the pillow. But not this time. There's something that's unsettling me and as much as I crave an escape of a couple of hours of unconsciousness, my body clearly sees fit to remind me.

It's not the ring. It's not him. He's fantastic- my curly haired, rap-loving, cradle of support. He pushes me to be the best version of myself and let's be honest, I've always been a book in desperate need of a thorough edit. Maybe gold stars are to blame. Maybe the trophies that accompanied every minor accomplishment in childhood built up this lofty gnawing need for recognition. I still want my purple "Good Effort" ribbon.

Maybe this is a humbling spoon of reality. Maybe it's good not to have everything I want, to allow an area of my life leaving me wanting. Maybe I need to not want. Maybe I should become a Buddhist.