the moment I knew
a cathartic revisitation of a shoddy love story
“He’s cute,” I whispered to my friend.
My streaky purple hair lay atop my head, sutured in a satin scrunchie, while my chartreuse cropped jacket hit the small of my waist. We impatiently waited at the bar for our drinks, gin and tonics with tanqueray, shoulder to shoulder with a sea of other 20-somethings. I felt particularly self-assured in my hip hugging flares, scanning the room with a listless gaze, sneaking curious glances over his way.
“That’s James. We kind of had a thing.”
Four tart and tangy gin and tonics, three communal Marlboro lights, two shifty games of pool, and one hour long karaoke ballad of Tiara Whack’s new album later, we found ourselves at his apartment. Solange’s “A Seat at the Table” hummed in the background while he sat on his living room floor cutting a line of cocaine. The walls were washed in a blaring blue color, while the tendrils of well-cared for plants framed the window panes. His beige shaggy rug beneath my feet, the stylish teak coffee table beneath a chrome plate of ambiguous white powder. I sunk into the couch, uncomfortably shrinking amongst his things.
“Do you want some?”
“No, I’m good.”
Months passed and I forgot all about him. I was out to dinner with a friend who mentioned she wanted to set me up with someone. While she scrolled through her phone searching for a picture, I felt self-conscious: painfully aware that I’ve never been in a relationship before. I remember turning 23 and feeling hopeless, unwanted and deeply misunderstood. She raised her phone screen upwards in my line of site. I stammered:
“I know him…James, right?”
“How do you know him?!”
He would start to show up at bar outings, house parties, group picnics; I’d start to expect his presence, even hope that he’d be there. His listless gaze met mine whenever I’d go looking. We’d exchange a few flirtatious sentiments, knock each other’s shoulder and nervously fidget while exchanging timid banter. Our awkward synergy felt different: tender and sweet, like a child’s first crush. He was beautiful. Tall and sinewy with mocha brown hair that coiled in loose hanging curls above his taught jawline. He had large round eyes, laced with that kind of decorative eyelash that women envy. He had this playful breathy laugh that made me feel warm. He moved slowly, nurturing each interaction with thoughtful engagement. His hands moved with a graceful certainty, moving only when my energy instructed them to.
A few months of this coordinated effort resulted in an invite to a Tame Impala listening party at a small music venue downtown. He reached out to our mutual friend since we haven’t exchanged phone numbers yet. As I got ready, I reflected my earnest amusement with the situation: I’ve never had a guy treat me with such delicacy. He seemed to know exactly how to temper the dynamic, balancing precious intrigue with subtle intensity. I felt like a caged animal, highly cautious of my keepers, slowly letting my guard down. It was thrilling and petrifying and new.
That night he kissed me. It was an awkward, cute and clunky, cinematic kiss, sealed by the portable mantra of “Let It Happen” blaring in the background. “Did he plan that?” I thought, overwhelmed and blissed by the corny nature of firsts. We left and kissed again at the corner under a harsh street lamp, surely exposing my smudged mascara and elated disposition.
Five years later, I find myself single: healing from what turned out to be the most painful, addictive, blissful, glorious, terrifying, and destabilizing five years of my brief 29 years of life.
We endured Covid together. I got pregnant and miscarried (to my relief). I started a business. He hated that. We moved in together. We adopted a dog. He moved out. We broke up. He flew to Spain alone on our three year anniversary while I received mobile updates from Southwest about my absence. We got back together. I opened a store. We broke up. We got back together, for real now. We talked about marriage. Owning a house, decorating our lives with spritely fixtures of picturesque appendages: wirey children, worldly possessions from traveling continents, criterion collections, and dutifully earned ephemera from the years of trauma bonding.
We committed ourselves to the work. The grueling, demanding, and fastidious work. I demanded he got sober. He came home one day and told me he applied to a job in New York City. I supported him. I secretly prayed that he wouldn’t leave. That he wouldn’t leave me again and again and again. He left. We endured two months of long distance before I flew out to visit him. We played nice, but things felt off. I no longer felt interesting, seen, loved, or cared for. This was the moment I knew. We inevitably fell into feud, exchanging nasty remarks that eviscerated the last strands of trust holding the crumbs of our shoddy, imperfect love story. He kicked me out of his apartment, the one I found for him, and I flew home two days earlier then planned.
We haven’t spoken since.