Tripping over the idea that Bridget just doesn't live here anymore is like waking up and finding cat puke. You sigh, grab a towel or a handful of Kleenex, pick it up, and go on with your day feeling a little bummed. Example: the other day I thought, "You know, this pile of magazines is really getting unmanagable. I should box 'em up and take them to the recycling bin at Bridget's apartment." sigh. "Old apartment." Or this: "God, these crab rangoon from The Wok rock. We'll order them next time Bridget and Jimmy come over." sigh. "Or not."