I’m trying to recall the way it feels to climb into bed alone and wiggle under the covers, how to set the alarm and turn off the light and close my eyes and go to bed. How it feels to fall asleep without your arms around me. I’m trying to recall what it’s like to cook dinner for one, and to go to a party without your hand in mine, how to tell the hostess at our favorite restaurant that it’s just me, today. Showers are so much quicker when we’re not giggling and playing and touching, hands slipperysliding here and there and hot water turning our skin red and wet lips kissing. When I wake up in the morning, you’re not there to listen to my disjointed recollections of what I dreamed about the night before. And you’re still in my dreams, as ever—you and me in strange places, or eating ice cream in animal masks, or riding horses underwater. In my dreams, you’re here, but when I wake up I’m all alone and I don’t remember how to do that.
We broke up last Friday. I’m not trying to sound dramatic, but I truly thought I might die.
He was about to leave, again, this time for a while—a few weeks, he said, maybe a month. I told him, it feels like you’re always leaving, and he said it was something he just had to do, but that he wanted to come back, if I’d have him. I said I didn’t know if I could do it. We both cried and my heart ached and we held each other in bed until I realized that was dysfunctional, so I asked him to leave and later he told me that he stood outside the door, hearing my sobs and feeling miserable.
I waited for his car to pull into the driveway all night. Every time headlights illuminated the room, I’d run to the window. He didn’t come home. Saturday, I stayed in bed all day, crying and reading and taking a Xanax when I felt too helpless. That’s what my psychiatrist terms unhealthy behavior. It was getting dark, and my head was cloudy from it all, and I sent him a text message, asked, are you okay? He didn’t reply, and I was feeling sort of desperate and stupid when I texted him again an hour later, saying, please can you come over?
He came right away and I tried so hard not to cry, and he told me that he didn’t want to hurt me. And we both blinked at each other, sitting on that same stupid bed where we’d made love more times than I could count, where we took turns spooning one another all night. The bed where we holed up on snowy days, rainy days, sunny days, any day, just the two of us and hot cocoa and movies and kisses. I asked him what he wanted to do, and he said he wanted to be with me. And I told him, of course, I wanted him more than anything. And I asked, why can’t we be together, then? And neither of us could think of a reason. I was too scared to kiss him, then, but we went to the grocery store to pick up a few things we needed, and I was so happy that there were things that we needed, and there in the produce section, I gave him a hug and he put his lips to mine and that’s when I figured that everything would be okay.
You make me feel so lonely sometimes, and I know you maybe, probably don’t mean to, but it makes me feel so low and that makes you feel so far away from me and the whole thing is just awful.
I guess it’s the way that I really, truly like you, a whole lot, and knowing that I’m probably not enough for you; the way that you always talk about how great things were when you lived up north. The friends you had and the things you did, and I can’t compare.
And all I want is for you to feel truly, sublimely happy, with me.
It’s particularly bad one night. I’m feeling miserable and I can’t stop crying and you’re playing the guitar and you won’t look up at me, won’t even acknowledge me when I move a little closer to be near you. I go into the bathroom and I turn the overhead light on and tears are streaming down my face. I’m doing that awful, scary thing where I look in the mirror and don’t recognize the person looking back at me.
I wait a good long time and I’m still hysterical, but I wipe the tears away and blow my nose, wash my face. I pull on a pair of jeans and boots and I say, I’m going for a walk. You don’t look up as you ask if I want you to come with me. I say, don’t bother, and I don’t slam the door behind me, because it’s not my style. But I stand by the door for a moment, hoping you’ll come after me.
You don’t.
So I’m just a sad, lonely girl walking down the road, crying into her mittens late on a Saturday night. I walk for what seems like forever, and I turn back after almost an hour. I keep hoping you’ll call me, asking, babe, where are you? But I guess that wouldn’t be your style.
When I get back to our place all of your things are gone, and all I can think is, I wonder how you packed an entire life up so goddamn quickly.
fall
I didn’t build my life around him anymore—didn’t wait to make plans if I didn’t know when he’d be free. I planned girls nights with my friends and it didn’t bother me that I wouldn’t see him that night.
When we were together, sure, I was happy. The leaves were turning red and in the morning the air was crisp, just a bit of a chill to it and it was nice to cuddle next to him, to go for walks and feel the crunch of leaves beneath my boots.
He was sweeter, more considerate. He brought me flowers every so often, just because. He planned romantic dates, weekend getaways, picnics in the park. When we spent the night apart, he always called me just before he went to sleep to say goodnight and I love you.
I think he really did love me. Isn’t that something? Me.
It didn’t feel the same, this time around. He didn’t make my heart race, and I didn’t ache when we spent time away from one another. I wondered if it was inevitable, you know, the end of the honeymoon.
But I wanted my heart to race and ache and long, for him.
He asked me what we should do for Thanksgiving and I told him that I was going home, and he asked if he ought to come, with this expectant look. And immediately, I knew I didn’t want him to come with me, didn’t want him to meet my family, learn our traditions.
Because he wasn’t the one.
It was unseasonably cold, and the first snow fell early in December. We were split up by then. The only trace of him left in my apartment was the shirt he used to sleep in, neatly folded and tucked away in the back of my closet.
summer
We arrived in Greece and it was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen—clear blue waters and sparkling white buildings, fresh fish, sails flapping gently in the breeze.
We spent three days in Athens before heading to Santorini. There, we made love every morning, laid on the beach all day, watched the sunset every night. Some days, we’d walk along the caldera, or go for a boat ride.
It wasn’t until we got to Mykonos, the second week of the trip, that we began to fight. It was little things here and there, but suddenly the mood of the trip was tense and every morning I’d go out for a long run before he was awake. I’d shower and then we’d read over coffee and a pastry. We’d spend the day on the beach, not talking much.
One night, we went to dinner and then out to a nightclub, and he was drunk on ouzo—me too, maybe, and we were dancing but he kept drooling over a redhead girl in an impossibly short skirt. I put my hand on his chin and turned his face back toward me, said, baby.
He turned and looked at her again and I pulled away from him.
Where are you going? he asked.
To get a glass of water, I snapped, and I started to walk away and he said Jesus, Stella. You’re so goddamn uptight.
I couldn’t look at him. I headed straight out of the club and back to the hotel. I cried and cried in bed and I was already fast asleep when he came back, smelling like another woman’s perfume.
In the morning I woke up and took a shower and sat outside on the balcony, looking out at the horizon and feeling so low.
He came outside with two cups of coffee. He handed me one and said, I’m sorry for what I said, honey bunny.
What you said? I spat. I was so angry.
He looked at me blankly.
When did you get back last night? I asked him.
He shrugged his shoulders.
You’re such an asshole, I said.
We just danced, he told me. That’s all.
Tears welled up in my eyes and I hated for anyone to see me cry so I turned away from him.
I’m sorry, Stella, he said again. His voice sounded quiet, hollow.
The last week of the trip was awful. I was angry, and he seemed so pathetic. He apologized a million times, but I couldn’t get it out of my head, the smell on him when he crawled into bed that night, and I couldn’t forget what he had said to me.
I tried to forgive him, but I was so hurt, so angry. I couldn’t.
My best friend picked me up at the airport. I couldn’t say goodbye to Eric. After we got our bags, I just shook my head and I was so close to crying. I turned away and and willed him out of my mind.
He must have called about a million times, and he had flowers delivered every week, sent me chocolate and wine, a teddy bear.
I didn’t take him back for about a month, but I realized I needed him, and so finally, in September, I called and said hey, honey.
He said, I’ll be right over.
And that was that.
He broke up with me on Christmas Eve. Anyway, I’m Jewish, so it wasn’t a huge deal except that I ran out of ice cream the next day and I couldn’t go to the grocery store for more. And a break up without too much ice cream—well, that’s no good. I guess I could have gone to the shitty grocery store out by the highway, but it didn’t seem worth it.
I went to a bar that night and I resolved to get drunk. The place was packed and I had to crane my neck around and I’m not too good at being assertive, but I said to the bartender, as loud as I could, salty dog, please. He moved so quickly, tilting his head toward customers to indicate that he wanted their order, pouring drinks without looking. But he stopped, and he took a step toward me and he asked, Salty dog? Really? I bit my lip and shrugged my shoulders. Salty dog, he said again. I nodded. Vodka or gin? he asked. Vodka, please, I said. I’ll start a tab, I told him.
By one, well, I’m not sure how many I had had. The crowd was thinning out and the bartender asked if I wanted another, so I drained the last of my drink and nodded, said, yes, please. He talked to me as he made the drink, said, I haven’t made a salty dog in quite a while. I said, or maybe slurred, but they’re so delicious. He placed the drink in front of me and I licked a little salt off of the rim and he said, I think this is the last one for you, okay? I nodded and then I smiled. He was pretty cute. You’re pretty cute, I told him. Gee, thanks, he said, sarcastically, and I told him, I mean it.
My boyfriend broke up with me today, I told the bartender, and he said, a girl like you? I said, yeah. And he said, your boyfriend must be an idiot. I said, I don’t know. He said, I guess you can have one more drink. Special circumstance, and all. He asked, you seeing family for Christmas? I shook my head. He said, me neither. He asked my name and I told him and then he said his and put his hand out to shake mine and I’m such a fool so I held on for a second too long, but he didn’t seem to notice.
Bars close around here at two and he had made me one last cocktail and we kept chatting and then he asked if I could make it home okay, and I told him that I had better call a cab. He asked, do you live around here? I said, yeah. He said he’d take me home. He drove a pretty nice car and I hoped I wouldn’t be sick in it. I gave him directions to my house, but somewhere along the way I started to cry and I hoped he wouldn’t notice and I felt like such a mess. He reached over and tucked my hair behind my ear as he drove, and patted my shoulder and it was all very sweet. Sorry, I said. Don’t be, he told me.
We got to my apartment quickly enough and he walked me to the door to be sure I got in okay, and it was a long shot, but I asked, look, could you do me a favor? And he said, what’s that? Would you mind staying with me? I asked him. And he said yes and thank god. He was a perfect gentleman, held me all night and I cried and screamed and he told me I would be okay and I believed him.
She leaned into kiss me, and her breath reeked, and I said, baby, you’re drunk. She giggled, and she tried to kiss me again, and I pushed her away. I loved her, but I didn’t want her, like this.
It seems silly, but it was a big deal, for us. She’d go out sometimes, sometimes a lot, with her friends and she’d come home laughing and stumbling and chattering. And I hated it. And I didn’t want to be that way. I wondered why she wouldn’t stay in with me—with books and movies and crossword puzzles and tea.
I knew that boys probably came up to her, bought her drinks, said they liked her hair, or whatever. I hated them for it. I hated her for it too, I think. I wonder if that was wrong. I wonder if I could have dealt with it, if we’d still be together now. I wonder if it would have been so bad for my girlfriend to come home wasted and loving me and wanting to hold me forever and ever. Because I think it’s got to be better than me alone, and drunk—a new experience for me, since I told her to get the fuck out—and missing her so goddamn much.
