hide out from the ones you know will love you

"i'm just so bloody over it. this boyfriend-as-band-aid syndrome."

"yeah, i hear you. it's pathetic."

"you know? it's like, get your shit together. no one's going to 'save you.'"

"right? maybe you should write a blog post about that."

i smirked, thinking of how this blog has become something of an extension of myself now, my life, like a place to hang my coat by the front door.

"yeah, maybe," i said.

****

"do you want to come over?" he asked, online, of course. "we could run those errands of yours. i'll help you. then maybe get some dinner?"

"yeah," i typed back, full of false enthusiasm. "that sounds like fun!" smiley face.

"oh, and bring some swimming trunks, maybe we can take a dip in the pool after dinner." winky face.

"yeah? that could be good. you know what they say about going swimming after you eat, though." winky face back.

"well, maybe we'll just have to think of something else then."

winky fucking face.

*****

last week, i was crossing the street, and i could swear someone who looked exactly like david was crossing from the other side of the street. he looked different, of course, like maybe he'd put on some weight or lost some hair or something, but i couldn't stop staring, waiting for the hint that this was not in fact david, that he was still in new york or who even knows anymore. he'd have no reason to be in melbourne. no reason to be back in my life, even tangentially. regardless of what i sometimes considered, maybe in some way wanted.

to recognize one another.

*****

i forget my swimming trunks and we never run those errands. i have been here before. i know how this works. assumed familiarity, which i suppose is necessary when it's only a matter of minutes before clothes are coming off and privacies invaded. we're in the bedroom, he's fiddling about with this and that on his dresser, i'm not sure if i should sit down on the bed. it's like halloween every day, and i keep recycling my "lady in waiting" costume.

and then he comes over to me, as if he is about to walk right through me, and so it begins.

here's the keys, you drive.

****

"well, when's the last time either of us has been in a healthy relationship?" jay asks, online, unfortunately.

"i know, right?"

"i mean, maybe we're all in something of an 'unhealthy relationship' until we're in the right one."

i agree, because it does seem quite simple, and i'm just too exhausted for complicated these days, but i want to ask if it's possible that it's still healthy, but it just doesn't work. or is it just the amount of sickness? what if it's just the flu, not a five-car pile-up that's ended in a fiery rage and you trapped in the passenger seat?

****

yesterday, on the tram, i said the name "david" in my head over and over, trying to attach recognition to the word. i don't know how this started, what track my train of thought had jumped onto. i suppose i'll never speak to him again, and the greater distance i get from the time our lives intersected, the more it seems like just some strange fever dream that i've awoken from, sweaty and confused, and asking constantly for almost two months now, where am i? where am i? where am i?


****

i read this fantastic quote in a book once. the main character is getting ready to meet a man she's been seeing quite uncertainly for dinner. throughout the story, she is visited by something of an imaginary relationship counselor trying to talk her down from the rooftop of her dating life.

"telling jokes is your way of asking, 'do you love me?' this mentor says as she's getting dressed that night. 'and when these men laugh, you think they've said yes."

it was as if someone had revealed my dirtiest, darkest secret. and the book was a bestseller--how many people that knew this! i put the book down and looked around, blinking away the sudden film of tears on my eyes.

****

"i might just lie and say i have a boyfriend, i don't know, say that we had taken a break and decided to get back together," i said later. "i just can't handle it--it's too intense."

"yeah," she said. "yeah, that'd be easy enough."

"i don't know, maybe i should be honest," i sighed, rolling my eyes. "just tell him that he's looking for more than i can give him."

i look back now, and i wonder: what am i trying to say here? he's asking for too much, or i'm incapable of giving more? this supply and demand of the heart.

****

and let's be honest, i can count on one hand the number of guys i actually liked, which means i've spent much of my time giving shit excuses to men i was too afraid to tell the truth to.

****

i've been here before, waking up at 6:30am in someone else's bed, curled up at the very edge, clutching the pillow and thinking, how quickly could i get out of here? i usually just go back to sleep, go through the motions of waking up (the inevitability of morning sex), having a shower, having breakfast, and gracefully making an exit. but one time, i ran. i slid out of bed, listening to his snores as i pulled on my clothes, closed my backpack (he lived two hours away; i was supposed to be there for the weekend) and held my shoes in my hand as i tiptoed out in my socks.

in the living room, i left a note. "thanks for the accommodations." i was angry at him, but moreso, i was angry at myself. what was i doing here? i knew in the months earlier that we'd spent chatting that this guy was no good for me. and did i really need this on the history books, another 40-something with a kid who can't understand him and an ex-wife who can't forgive him? (talk about validating those daddy issues.) and did i even have any right being pissed off that he was flirting with some surely underaged twink at the bar the night before while i stood a foot away, staring blankly at a drag queen and sighing into my vodka? (some things you can guarantee in life...)

but there i was, the next morning, slipping on my shoes and making my way to the door. scorned by someone i did not actually really know, and yet recognized almost instantly. i think some people's dysfunction fits together like puzzle pieces, and the picture they create is always an ugly one. i said i'd learned my lesson, but this was years ago. i hadn't, yet.

the moment i was out the door, zipping up my jacket against the frigid morning of an upstate new york winter, i started running for my car. i threw my bag on the passenger seat and slammed the door. i hit the lock, i don't know why, except i sort of do. i pulled out of the parking lot of his apartment complex and held my breath all the way to the highway.

****
ultimately, i'm sure, it wasn't david crossing the street that day. i'm sure if i did something crazy like dart through the crowds and grab his arm, i would realize on closer inspection he looked nothing like david, except the look of annoyed bewilderment on his face, which i might recognize from the tail-end of our relationship. and i would apologize and keep walking, my heart pounding in my throat for at least the next ten minutes.

and if it was david? what would i say? what would he say? i doubt i'd be able to even come up with a decent joke. i doubt he'd even laugh anymore.

****
"you know what? screw it," i said. "i think i'm just going to tell him the truth."

"absolutely," she said. "it's so much easier in the long run if you're just honest."

****

honestly? i knew i'd never get those errands done, and i forgot the swimming trunks on purpose.

winky face.