Blame Saturn Returns. Vick Does.

It didn’t seem right that after six years of marriage, not to mention the work I put into landing the guy in the first place, that it would boil down to something as simple as a coffee cup platitude. "You gotta do what you gotta do?" My pronouncement was meant to set off long looks and a dark night full quarters in the jukebox. No lonesome whippoorwill or low-whining midnight train? Guess not. Hell, it didn’t even look like a second beer was in order. Vick pushed a red plastic, paper-lined basket full of mottled yellow popcorn towards me, and I gnawed on a couple of foamy kernels. More disappointing was the lack of a Patsy Cline-and-Wild Turkey sobfest than the notion of becoming a 30-year-old divorcee. But damned if she wasn’t right.
“How?” I asked, too surprised at her forthrightness to be defensive, and relieved at her utter lack of judgement.
“Couple of things. First off, you’re in your Saturn returns.”
I had no freakin’ clue what she was talking about. “Oh, but of course. Saturn returns. I don’t know how I ever missed it in the first go-round, and now it’s back.”
“Being sarcastic is unattractive in a single woman.” She took a deliberate sip of her beer, looked straight ahead, placed the bottle squarely back on the cocktail napkin, and continued. “You’ll end up bitter, and no one will date you.”