Lose your cool.

You sigh. “April,” you say, “it’s really none of your business”—of course, it actually is, but she doesn’t need to know that right now—“and I don’t want you following me to find out.”

April’s really mad now, and starting to get shrill. She interrupts you and says—well, half-shouts—“You just don’t want to admit that you can’t get a real woman!”

At that, something snaps, and your anger comes roaring back—but different. It’s not hot now, but cold, and it’s impersonal in a way. It’s not rooted in your hurt, because thanks to Amber, you’re not hurting anymore. Rather, you are suddenly struck by the injustice of April’s behavior, toward her daughter as much as toward you, and by the pure ego that drives it. Her ego never seemed to you to be a problem when she was on your side, but now you see its need to reduce and dominate anyone it perceives as a threat. You know it’s probably a bad idea, but you can’t stop yourself from fighting back.

“Oh, please,” you shoot back, with an edge of contempt in your voice. April’s eyes go wide; you’ve never spoken like this to her before. “You’re not all that and a bag of chips. You’re not God’s gift to men, even in bed. Want you back? I wouldn’t take you back. I’ve found a younger woman who’s actually my intellectual equal, and she’s hotter than you, too. Now that I have her, I wouldn’t settle for you.” You try to hold back the final dagger, because you don’t want to be crass in public, but you can’t help yourself. “She even has better tits.”

Your comeback takes April completely by surprise—and infuriates her. You can see in her eyes that your words and tone have convinced her that you really don’t want her back, which is a heavy blow to her ego. More than that, you said it in public, so everyone could see.

April flushes with rage, which doesn’t look good on her at all. She wants to hurt you, but your stunning response and her own fury have left her incoherent. All she can do is stand there, rooted to the spot, and splutter as you step quickly around her and move to the counter. The young woman at the register is admirably grave as she takes your order, but you can see the corner of her mouth twitching, and you can’t ignore the way her eyes are dancing. You sense it more than see it when April abruptly breaks out of her stasis and gracelessly deposits herself in the booth you had just left. When Amber’s latté is done, you take it and walk out the door.