She is angry, so she talks to her friends. She tells them how she is feeling, what she is processing, and what she thinks about what she's feeling and how she feels about what she's processing. She is angry because he doesn't seem to be as upset as she is; that he is over it even before it was an obstacle to overcome. She ran into a friend of his a few days ago who asked her if she was coming to the Christmas party, which seemed so cruel- until she realized that the friend wasn't asking with malice, but because they didn't know about the break-up. Why couldn't he, for once tell someone how he feels? She can't believe it's over in the first place. It- they - are over? How could she have let this happen? Was she not enough for him? She'd learned the way he liked his eggs and how to wake him up in the morning; how he liked to be kissed; she'd changed her hair for him and grown it out after he'd seen a picture of her from a few years back; she'd learned to drink americanos, gin; she'd even come to love the stupid dog who'd sit on the couch with her. Yes, she is angry, angry as all hell, and sad, tremendously sad.
He is angry, so he punched the wall, which frightened the dog, who he apologized to. He put a sweater on this morning- the one he'd bought in Europe while doing a fellowship there- and it smelled of her so strongly that he would have sworn she was standing behind him. It's a stupid thing to be so angry about, he knows, and certainly no reason to punch a wall, but it had compounded things for him. He wanted to read on the couch and not think about the Christmas party he was absent from, but the dog was sleeping where he usually sat and so he relented- a Christmas kindness- and, immediately upon settling himself on the other side of the couch, realized that the cushion still held her impression from when she'd thrown herself on it to beg for mercy when they were flirting and he was tickling her and she had accidentally collapsed a spring.