Food Flings and Food Fights

I’m entering the third year of my latest relationship. And like any long-term relationship, it’s been full of laughter and tears, passion and strife, cheeseburgers and mac-and-cheese.
Since freshman year, I’ve been dating Chartwell’s. And I think that now, as I enter my junior year, I might be ready to call the whole thing off.
Three years is a long time to dedicate to one entity. At first, we were tangled in the bliss of new love like a Caesar chicken wrap is swathed in a tortilla. I was a naïve college freshman, eager to fall for the first person who offered me tater tots and milkshakes. But the more I see of the world, the more I realize that there are more options than just plastic cutlery that bends or shatters when you try to spear a baby carrot.
To be honest, our relationship has taken on the feel of a bowl of day-old oatmeal. We both have our downfalls. He gets cold and distant on the weekends. I nag and complain, especially when he’s out of ketchup.
Lately, he’s been trying to win me back. He woos me with fresh ranch chips and assorted baked goods as varied and delicious as a heart-shaped box of chocolates. He’s even started giving me free two-ounce cups of soft-serve ice cream, which seemed like a cute token until I realized his game. Two ounces is just enough to keep me craving for my next fix—he’s trying to keep me trapped and dependent.
On top of all this, he’s moved to Facebook stalking. Whenever I log on, I have seventeen new event invitations from Chartwell’s. His date ideas are charming, I’ll admit. Sushi in the Roost. October tea tasting. Still, it feels like a last desperate move. He’s become increasingly needy, and I’ve been considering my other options.
He must know my eyes have been wandering. He’s seen me with more exotic suitors, like Elmhurst Chop Suey and Chipotle. I’m only twenty, I can’t be tied down. But Chartwell’s-induced guilt makes my culinary exploits seem like the adventures of a cheap slut. Soon, I’ll be whoring myself out for the Taco Bell value menu. And as I sprawl on the curb with congealing nacho cheese spilling down my shirt, Chartwell’s will tell everyone I had it coming all along.
The thing is, we both knew our relationship would be temporary from the start. I can’t live in the dorms forever. I’ll move off campus, and he’ll find some impressionable freshman to regale with Alfredo sauce and chicken strips.
I’ve considered our long-distance options, but I’m not sure if tater tot casserole holds a strong enough siren call to pull me back day after day.
Besides, it might be fun to explore single life. Buy a few sauce pans and a bottle of vegetable oil and embark on my newly independent culinary life.
The problem is that after I end it, we’re bound to run into each other. It’s a small campus, and he’s involved in a lot. I’ll swing by to grab a bagel or a Diet Coke, and things will just be awkward. I’ll tell him I miss his apple cheesecake. I’ll admit I was rash and cruel in ending our fling, and that I’ve been surviving on Saltines and canned peas since I left the safe realm of the cafeteria.
He’ll smile understandably, nod in his most knowing way, and hand me a coupon for a free two-ounce ice cream cup.