Goodbye My Love

GOODBYE MY LOVE by Lynn Adler November 28, 2025

The rain fell fierce and cold as Diane pulled the hood of her rain cape up over her head. The plastic star pattern reflected the drops. She watched from across the boulevard. She and Joe were not having a private goodbye after all. He was the celebrity writer, not she or not she yet she quietly whispered to herself.

Part of their relationship was about their competition. Who would make it first. They tried not to think of it that way, but make it fun, jokey, and motivating. They didn’t read each other’s work in advance, though.

The adoring crowds called Joe’s name as the cameras rolled. No one or not many knew the hit novel was about them, but Diane did. Joe had tried to apologize. Not necessary she said crisply. Write from your life, right? And she meant it, but it still twisted like a Gordian knot in her stomach. Phrases like she was a babe in bed but then turned herself off after as she went to the stove to fry some cod. The cod suborning stayed cold and dry as she flipped the spatula over and over. Diane kept cringing even though she knew he had to throw some juice in it. It wasn’t exactly her, the bones of it, but an interpretation.

Diane didn’t know that March 29th was going to mean something. The New York midtown sidewalk was slippery with velvety moss poking up through cracks.She was rushing to her office job as an assistant editor to a new magazine. Her friend Shelly had introduced her to Anita Payne who ran the place and Anita immediately liked the 34-year-old with the blunt cut auburn hair who already looked as defeated as her scuffed low heeled pumps but had an instinct for stories and language. They were so different, but they meshed and clicked in a strange jigsaw puzzle way and Diane saw a mentor in Anita. She got the rough intimidating character and laughed at her jokes. She felt respected and understood for the first time since college maybe, but she sensed being late was not well tolerated even so and she didn’t want to test Anita.

She went down at Bryant Park. She thought it wasn’t a break, probably a sprain, but she couldn’t get up. Her next thought was what Anita’s reaction was going to be. Diane groaned and in classic cliché form a light male voice next to her ear said: It’s all right. I got you. May I help? I don’t want to hurt you. I’m a writer. That made Diane laugh, and then ooh, it hurt. She hadn’t seen his face yet, but thought she wanted to investigate even through the pain. She also didn’t have much of a choice. Got to check on your ankle, he said. It’s starting to puff up like a cotton candy ball. That’s not a very polished line, but I guess you’re a writer after all. Hospital or café, he asked? Café it is, Diane resolved.

Later after he helped her hobble to a taxi and took her home, applied the ice and wrapped a tight ace bandage around her ankle, they started talking about writing. Hey, you’re 29 and it’s March 29th. He had slipped that information to her earlier about his age. I notice coincidences. Pretty bad, right? Sure, it’s gotta mean something like meeting on Valentines Day, he replied. They both laughed because that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. They talked some more about writing. Diane hadn’t wanted to confide that she was a wanna be writer, really a secret writer, but he made her believe.

So they talked, they wrote, they met, they wrote some more and fell in love. They had a pull that also had to do with the age difference, a reverse of the typical order. It was exciting for both of them and Diane felt less drab and full of pep. They moved in together or rather Diane moved into Joe’s apartment, an inheritance from his dad and grandfather, shoe factory owners. So he had all the time to write and he started to publish. They both wrote day and night when they could, she in her spare time.

Diane still kept her job. Her family were hard working and didn’t believe in slacking or shirking as they called it, especially with five children. Diane had no argument with that. It made sense.It was also a what if something happened in the back of her mind, but she loved Anita even so and loved the job. Her light essays and fiction began to appear in the magazine.

Joe Borowitz was a lovable, kind, down to earth boyfriend, sexy to her, but Damien Wright was better for romance and the name blazed across the glossy dust jacket. Diane thought that Joe was in there when you took the jacket off and saw the plain cloth cover. He was a chameleon. He could do that, didn’t even think about it, shifting personalities seamlessly as the occasion called for it, but Diane saw it all, biting her tongue and feeling an irrational sense of anger. How does he do it? The natural charm and ambition. I’ll never be able to do that and that’s what it takes. This was the constant battle in her head.

After five years she was along for his ride. It felt more and more like that’s what it was. He was losing patience with her moods and what he saw as procrastination and struggle with her writing. He also saw jealousy flaring up in her, even when she tried to hide it. Boring Diane. They ate oatmeal together in the mornings and confirmed which brand to stock up on. Then went their separate ways for the day.

They were holding up the book under an umbrella and getting ready to go back into the studio to conduct the interview. The host shouted, you’re all getting a signed copy to take home, and the crowd roared. Were those tears in people’s eyes or just the rain? Diane scoffed to herself. They tell you to jump and you all do it. The best new novel? What did she think? Mildly good for a first novel. Needs work, but Joe didn’t ask me to edit. We had promised each other not to, she kept reminding herself over and over with flooded recrimination.

The interview was over. Diane could glimpse figures moving through the big studio window. The door opened. The rain had stopped and Joe started to duck into the limousine to take him to the airport, bags packed and waiting inside for the flight to Paris. He stopped suddenly and looked toward the trees like a hawk receiving an internal signal and he blinked briefly. Bryant Park. March 29th. Joe 34. And there was Diane Bronson like a mirage, a nice name he still thought, 39, tired and rain soaked, but now with gleaming long blond hair peeking out of the rain cape hood. He was surprised to see her. It had been a month and a half. He shook his head. She’s trying too hard, he thought with distaste. He got into the limo and sped away.