My first question when my parents separated (I was 11) was, "Can we just not tell anyone?" There was something about the dismantling that felt too public. To split seemed shameful. So I consider it a matter of some pride that in my own breakups, I haven't had the impulse to conceal the end, including the most recent. We'd been together three years, albeit rocky ones. We thought that when it came to what mattered, we wanted similar things: a wedding, babies, eventually a home and careers outside New York, to be near our parents and care for them as they got older. For all of the bad times, there were so many good. We surprised each other. We danced spontaneously in our living room. It's a cliché, but I tell you, each of us could, with a certain glance, leave the other breathless. And then it crumbled. She wasn't sure she wanted this anymore; she needed to figure out who she was without me; she thought there might be something, someone better for her. I told pretty much everyone, immediately. I was no longer that shame-riddled 11-year-old. More importantly, I needed support. I needed to know that I was not inherently unloveable. I needed people to agree that she was a colossal idiot. There's only one person I couldn't tell, someone I know very little and who knows me very little. Mo, the proprietor of my exceptional neighborhood deli, knows how to do a yuppy bodega right: artisanal jam, organic meat, speck and prosciutto and several different brands of brie. A wide selection of organic soap and paraben-free sunscreen. I get dinner from Mo's counter several times a week, and stop in other times for overpriced fruit or a copy of the Economist. It's not surprising, then, that Mo knows things about me. He knows, for instance, what brand of tampons I buy and that I'm slowly killing myself with diet hot chocolate. His eyes are always scanning the surveillance screens fed from cameras around the store, and sometimes when I'm in the back aisles picking out coffee or standing in front of the freezer section wondering if I should go gluten-free for a week, it occurs to me that he may be witness to my all my neuroses. Instead of feeling creeped out by this, I find it oddly comforting. In a world we all enter and leave alone, I've got Mo watching over me. He knew things about Us, too. She liked pickles and jerky and licorice. I bought caffeine and yogurt in quantities that suggested preparation for the apocalypse. He knew that we sometimes -- okay, often -- wore each other's clothes, and what we were like when we'd been ever so slightly over-served at a bar earlier in the evening. He recognized that she had an easier time with people. When we traipsed in after a night out, the two of them flirted -- Mo has a black belt in the art of banter with customers, especially women. "How's it going?" I'd ask, the way you do in civil society. "Better now," he'd say, looking to her. "Oh, you missed me," she'd say. "I'm not missing anything now," he'd answer. Each time, I'd smile and shake my head at their antics, the faux-intimacy putting me a little on edge, and let her play for both of us.