Stuck With Her
“You’re stuck with me” she said. Jokingly of course, but in her sarcastic way, it was the sweetest thing she could have said; a wine-soaked sentiment saying, “I don’t want to lose you”.
As if the break up was my idea. Yes, I initiated it but only because her heart left me weeks ago. Calling a meeting and ended it was like pulling the plug on our relationship after it’s vitals had collapsed. I remember the day, the argument even, when she stopped loving me. I was mad at her yes, and she was angry with me, but I happened to say one thing that dimmed the spark I held in her eyes forever. How was I supposed to know that she’d heard that before from every other boyfriend she’d ever had? How was I supposed to know that my losing my poise was a nail in the coffin of a relationship and eventually a best friend?
After that argument we spent the night apart; a foreboding of what was to come. There were no texts that evening. There were no morning texts either. Even before we were lovers, we would text each other all the time — a simple and sometimes stupid gesture, but a way to say “you’re on my mind.” Now the communication lines were cut, and I seemed to be the only one checking my phone for signs of affection to come through. She was already gone.
Days later when the rioters were on the way, I drove over per her request to inspect the house. I sat uncomfortably and she paced around the room. It was nice to feel needed again, but there was no way to ignore the lack of glimmering affection in her eyes. After just a few days, I was a stranger; a useful ear and muscle to board up the windows if it came to that. When my use was over I felt like I was intruding, so I left. I kept an iron rod by my door in case the rioters came that night. She never checked in with me anyway.
A week went by. I don’t remember how many times I gave in and texted her around 11pm, something like “okay, goodnight, I hope you sleep well.” I don’t remember how many times she replied, “hey I was just gonna text you,” before I stopped believing her.
Another week or so went by. I’ve never spent more time alone while having a girlfriend. Worse than that, she was my best friend before; someone to talk to about something like this. My stoic silence and a park bench offered little support for commiserating. After all the holidays, birthdays, ups and downs, and rainy movie nights together, how could I matter so little?
Finally I called a meeting and ended our relationship. She cried a little, and I’m still not sure why. After my clunky rehearsed speech, we cleared the air enough to enjoy each other’s company. We drank and even laughed and assured each other that we would stay best friends somehow. I’m not sure if I’m more foolish for hoping for that, or more foolish for believing her when she said it.
The bar closed and I paid for our drinks. I walked her back to her car, and she hugged me. I kissed her. She said she loved me and I told her with everything I’ve ever known to be true that I loved her back. I kissed her again. That’s when she said, in her too-cool-for-school manner, that I better prepare for an enduring friendship because I was stuck with her. I meant something to her after all! That’s what I wanted most after watching the light for me burn out in minutes and never return. I wanted some acknowledgment that I mattered to the one person who mattered so much to me. I left her embrace that night confident that it wouldn’t be the last time.
A month went by of some labored texts and I set up a cocktail hour. I thought she liked the idea too, but I learned it was more of an obligation. After a glass or two I was an intruder. “I’m not kicking you out,” she said after belaboring the point of her early next morning and all the work she still had to do…even escorting me out the door.
Six months later, I texted her asking for my coat back. It had grown colder and darker since we last met. I thought I could bear the chill until she spoke first, but I couldn’t kid myself anymore that she, too, was suffering. I arranged to pick it up from her front door — the same door in which I used to have a key and be welcomed, even anticipated. She told me she’d like to see me but was sick, so she’d have to leave it for me. I don’t remember how many minutes passed before I stopped believing that was true. I gathered my belongings and left that porch for the last time. In this hostage situation, I left her book in exchange for my coat, something I borrowed in warmer times. In the book, I left a postcard and wrote something stupid and sentimental but ended with “I hope one day we can be friends again.”
And that is the last stupid thing I said to this love of mine; an amicable gesture that would not be returned. My peace offering would echo back to me in the hollowness that I live in today. Bitterness festers in the wound where a flourishing heart once beat. I am forgotten. I am left alone to be haunted by the last things my love said to me. She was right though, I am stuck with her, but without her. I think of her daily and nightly and that is my pain to bear. Stuck with her indeed, but only a tormenting ghost of her. “I hope we can be friends again” — a mocking echo to my naive heart.
