…but you move me, honey. Yes you do.
About two years ago I had just gotten out of a yucky four-year-long relationship. I sold the engagement ring, cut off all my hair, and got a tattoo. And then I met K.
He didn’t want a girlfriend. He didn’t want anything serious. He certainly didn’t want to be monogamous. He made it clear that I wasn’t to get carried away.
But I fell head-over-heels, ass over tea kettle. Mind over matter? Anyway, I was crazy about him. He really didn’t seem to mind.
But, again, he didn’t want anything serious. Well, hell, neither did I! It was great to have someone in my life who wasn’t trying to, as I like to put it, eat my soul. We enjoyed each other’s company, and then we went home. We saw each other about twice a week, on average, for a year. And it was lovely except when it really wasn’t lovely at all.
He was more Clark Kent than Superman, more Edward Norton than Brad Pitt. But his kisses made me walk into walls. The way he smelled drove me crazy. I’m convinced his skin secretes an addictive chemical. And like any worthwhile addiction, it was fantastic when it was good and achingly awful when it was bad.
“…it’s like the sun shines on you, and it’s glorious. And then he forgets you and it’s very, very cold.” -from The Talented Mr. Ripley
His smile is one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen. Especially when he was smiling at me. These past couple of weeks, when I’ve been missing him, that’s what I’ve missed the most. That smile. How much we used to laugh. Dimples and crooked teeth, and a gleaming glint of a sparkle in his eyes.
When I said his kisses made me walk into walls, I wasn’t kidding. I’d lose my sense of balance and direction and just… stumble. Dead sober, even.
I have never in my life loved anyone the same way I loved him. I might not ever love anyone like that again. And I’m wondering how to live with that.
Ten months ago we stopped seeing each other. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, and if we have to assign blame, it would probably fall on me. I behaved rather horribly and while it seemed necessary to cause a ruckus at the time, I regret it now.
He never loved me, you see. He says he doesn’t know if he’s ever loved anyone in that way. So here’s me ridiculously in love with him, and he’s– what’s a good word– ambivalent? indifferent? heartless?– not in love with me, anyway. So after a year of this, I thought, well FUCK, Folsom, it’s been a year. If he doesn’t love me by now, he isn’t gonna ever love me. It isn’t going to change. This will always feel horribly lopsided.
I once said I’d not only give him a kidney, but I’d tear the fucking thing out myself if I had to. While this was an exaggeration, I’m pretty sure he didn’t feel anything similar for me. He always paid for my drinks, but that’s not the same thing.
So it had to end. And I wasn’t strong enough to end it myself, so I acted wretched so he’d have to end things. Every time I had tried to walk away, I found that I couldn’t. I loved him too much. I was addicted to his skin, his smile, his company. But I knew he’d have a much easier time letting go of me, so I made it real easy for him to walk away. And by Gosh, he did.
We went out for drinks a couple of times in the months after that, and it was painful, but I enjoyed seeing him. It was almost like old times, minus the naked, sweaty aspects of our former relationship. It was nice. We laughed. We smiled.
I haven’t seen him in about six months now. He got himself a bonafide girlfriend and doesn’t want to see me anymore.
I would give a kidney to see him again. If I had to, I’d even tear it out myself.
But I might be willing to buy my own drinks this time.