“She told me I was the love of her life.”

I was having coffee with my former college roommate, who I’ll call Bob. Bob looked crestfallen as we discussed his most recent breakup.

“When did she say that?” I raised my voice, trying to be heard over the street traffic.

Bob looked up from his coffee, eyes squinting in defense of the sun. “When we first started dating. Like…a year ago?”

“Oh! So…not yesterday, or last week, or last month?”

“No. Early on.”

“So, long before she really got to know you, right? Long before she learned that you squeeze the toothpaste tube in the middle and that you leave your dirty underwear on the floor for days at a time?”

Bob did not appear to be amused by my observations on his latest, failed relationship. In fact, the look on his face indicated he wanted to punch mine. I recognized the look, though I hadn’t seen it since the last time he’d come to me to chat about the breakup before this one. Or maybe it was the breakup before that one. Either way, I doubt I was as empathetic as I should have been. Still, poking fun at Bob was making my day and had it not been for his need to complain about his latest, unsuccessful liaison, my ass would likely have been planted on the couch, watching cable news. Instead, I was sitting outside, sipping coffee on a beautiful Saturday morning.

“So, what are you going to do?” I asked blithely, already knowing his answer. He said the same thing after every breakup.

Bob clenched his fists and looked me straight in the eye. “I’m going to win her back.”

“You’re going to win her back?”

“Yes. I love her and I’m going to win her back!”

I undertook a quick mental accounting to make sure I didn’t miss anyone. “You mean like how you won Jodi back? And Jordan? And Crystal? And Anna? Did I forget anybody?”

Bob paused to take his own accounting. “Sam.”

“Right! Sam. How could I forget Sam?” For dramatic effect, I took a long sip of my coffee. “Bob, I admire your persistence, but it would appear that, historically, your attempts to ‘win her back’ have been less than successful.”

Bob shook his head in defeat and agreement while I pondered his admittedly impressive ability to find women to date, as well as his inability to keep them. Was it his personality? The way he dressed? The fact that his ass was sort of flat? I wasn’t sure and, besides, was in no position to throw the first stone. My win rate wasn’t any better.

“But why would she have ever told me I was the man of her dreams? Where did that come from?”

In the space of about a minute I attempted to unravel the mystery of love and relationships. I probably should have taken more time, at least two minutes, to come up with an answer, but Bob’s question was not rhetorical. He was staring at me from across the table, his puppy dog eyes begging for an answer, begging for something that might relieve some of the torture.

“Well, maybe at the beginning you actually were the ‘Man of Her Dreams.’ You know, back when you guys were new? Back when you were sending her flowers, helping her clean old coffee cups out of her car? That sort of thing. But then maybe you farted in front of her one too many times, or you forgot her birthday, or she caught you picking your nose, and the bubble burst.”

“Can’t we just refill the bubble?”

I understood what he was asking and though thus far I’d been unable to refill any of my own burst bubbles, I felt uniquely qualified to answer his question. Successful people can’t always figure out why they’re successful but, given enough time, failures always figure out why they failed.

“I suppose that’s possible, Bob, but you gotta find the repair kit. You need to patch the bubble before you try to refill it.” I stopped there, fearing I’d overused the bubble-repair analogy.

But my silence allowed Bob his own contemplative moment. He took a slow sip of coffee and started staring over my left shoulder. I left him alone. I knew Bob’s moments of clarity tended to be few and far between and, if he was indeed having one, I wasn’t about to interrupt, so I sipped my coffee and stared over his left shoulder. I’m sure, to the casual observer, we looked like a couple of deep-thinking philosophers, even though my focus was on a cloud that kind of looked like a puppy. I wasn’t sure into what abyss Bob was staring. Perhaps the future?

“Maybe it’s just love.” He shifted his gaze back to my face.

“Come again?”

“Maybe I just need to love her more. Maybe I just need to love her better.”

“Better than what?”

“Better than I have been.”

I shut my mouth and nodded, unsure how many times he’d forgotten an important date or how many times he’d burped in front of his most recent ex-girlfriend, or if those sorts of thing were possible to repair. But I felt hopeful, and though the hopefulness may have been due to the sunny day, the good coffee, or the company, it was real nonetheless.

“I say go for it, Bob. I say, this time, don’t let love beat you about the head and shoulders. I say you go back and defeat love, fair and square.”

Bob’s demeanor brightened considerably and, though I couldn’t be sure, he may well have levitated a couple inches over his chair.

“I’ll do it. I’m going beat love at its own, cruel game. But where do I start? What’s the first thing I should do?”

I sipped my coffee, took another minute to unravel all the complexities of love, and then rebuilt those complexities into a coherent, unified theory that was simple enough for Bob to implement on his own.

“Maybe tell her you’ll stop squeezing the toothpaste in the middle?”