"Are you all right?"
This is, on the surface, a foolish question—the young woman was sobbing even before she got in the cab. It's meant more as an inquiry as to whether I can help her, or if she wants to talk about it. Her claim to be fine means I can't help, and she doesn't want to talk.
Her apartment isn't far, and she's still crying as she hands me her credit card. While it runs, I twist around to look her in the eye.
"Look," I tell her, "I don't want to say I know how you feel, but I've got an idea.... And it's horrible, and it's miserable, and nobody ever deserves to feel that way. But what makes it so beautiful, and horrible too, is that it happens to everyone. And eventually...well, it won't go away, but it'll at least hurt less."
"But I feel like it just keeps happening!" Her voice is desperate with pain, and I'm suddenly consumed with memories of women I've made cry, or who've made me cry.
"I love him so much, and I don't understand this!"
"Neither do I, but that you're feeling this way shows you're at least a caring enough person to deserve someone better."
"But that doesn't make this hurt any less!"
"No, it doesn't," I tell her, "but I guess some of us just have to kiss more frogs than others."
It's a lame joke, but she laughs.