Earlier, the rain came down to meet the car as poetic angst soothed our silence. Now, I run my index finger over my lips and know that I am no longer the person he fell in love with. I pushed him away, I am the one in the wrong, and now I play the waiting game. Jury’s out on this one. I keep torturing myself looking at his messages since, and wonder how I could best respond – in a way that lets him know I still want him, I respect his need for time, and I am deep down the funny, happy, sexy person he wanted to be with so many months ago.
I think about all the underwear I could buy from Ann Summers to make me so attractive in one moment that he forgets everything else. I start to plan how to be a better person, one minute too late, start actively searching my mind for ways to be good and happy and sane when it is appropriate. I know I should have been doing this for myself long ago, rather than for him, especially now that it’s already gone too far, but all the self-help books by my bed didn’t change a lifelong habit that quickly. And I know I am being shallow. No one is pretty enough to cover up this mess.
So, I wait. I understand from the men in my life past and present that it is important to allow the elastic band metaphor room to breathe. I lay low for a day, restrain myself from buying cigarettes and alcohol, avoid too much caffeine to keep my nerve, and then I have the Nearly Parents’ house back to myself for another cold two weeks. I don’t even know if I’ll have my relationship back in conversation by next weekend; that’s kind of an assumption that I’m praying will hold up, otherwise we are in new territory. Long distance is definitely not my thing.
Here’s where I start to kick myself harder. Last night I had reached a high low thinking about how I don’t fit in at my current house, and how I miss my independence, and my boyfriend, and can’t wait to live with him alone. Lo, he comes home and suggests I move in with him next year. I focus on the part about it being in a city in the middle of nowhere, with no job or friends for me. Of course. I am neither overly excited or upset about the idea, as he had expected, because I am in such a weird place. Of course, I know it would be the ‘dream come true’. But I just couldn’t settle for that, could I.
I have broken in the mate I have a tattoo of on my foot, which we always agreed would never be an issue after a break-up, and never ammo in arguments. He will be in my skin for the rest of my life.