We came all this way together to become strangers again? I miss the laugh, the voice, the sarcasm. I don’t miss the passive-aggressive misdirection, the broken promises, the lackluster return on my investment. I still want to hold on, call back, text, reach out. I won’t.
In my life I can count on one hand the women who are known to hate me. My two ex-wives, of course. The alcoholic I almost married. And you.
What gives? You were my muse. I collapsed into your arms, your house, your bed, the lives of your family and son. The pandemic solidified our bond. The neighbors continued to burn. You wanted their warmth not mine. I was becoming to unstable. Or manic, as you might call it, if you didn’t know what you were talking about. You rarely knew what you were talking about, yet you shouted it with such confidence.
When I joined your movie I had not idea of the extent of the enmeshment. There were signs. An eight-year-old boy who still yells for you to come check his ass. Um. The yelling from across the house, “Mom!” Over and over. I asked him once, “Why don’t you go find her, rather than just yelling from your room?”
I started a swear jar until mom got pissed about her debt. I asked for the yelling to stop. I offered to help in the morning, made breakfast, drove the boy to third grade. Anything I could do to help.
You. Did. Not. Address. The monster. You never addressed the monster.
How funny, a month ago when you came through town. I had a moment. A thought. We played tennis together again at Friday night tennis. You looked just as beautiful. You carried a shame I was unable and unwilling to process. I hugged you. Suggested a dinner or breakfast with the boy. You said yes. You often said yes. You never intended to get together.
You said your son wanted to see me, “While we’re in town.” He didn’t. You said you’d contact your old landlord about a few packages that were misdirected. “I’m on it,” you said, three different times. You were not on it. After you’d gone back up East I asked for the tennant’s contact information. You never had it. You never tried to get the packages. One of them was for you, that’s where the shipping confusion came from.
You never tried to contact the tenant or me after our Friday night on the court. I will not reach out again. The image of loss and emptiness reminds me of your dysfunction.
I wanted to be recognized by your best friend and her husband. I wanted to be able to join you and your son as you jumped over the back wall to their house. I wanted you to stand up for me.
It wasn’t worth the risk. I did not have any way to support your lifestyle in the affluent neighborhood of Austin.
“She’s got a sweet deal,” a female friend of mine said. “What are you offering?”
Fuck. She was right. It was a bit like the alcoholic. I could not match her money, frequent flyer miles, or enthusiasm for wine. And just like today, a blast from the past, an attractive and creative woman followed me on Instagram. She had been blocked on my phone for over a year. She was a beautiful mess. Her social tickle perked up my ears, against my better judgment.
I unblocked her on my phone and texted hello. She responded something about not using text with friends for anything more than logisitics. And again, “if you want to ask me out…”
She continued to tease the asking me out thing, and when I would offer some suggestions, she refused all of them. At some point she asked if she could buy my son’s Glock. A random text just before I blocked her. I guess, I blocked her as much to prevent myself from connecting, or trying to connect, with her. I’ve thought about her several times in the last year. My friend John and I used to call her London. She’s obsessed with the UK.
I’m not going back to London. Today, I was sending out a thread. A sounding of her status. I’ll give her some time, but I’m not interested in her neurotypical push-me-pull-me jazz. I’ll let the sleeping woman go along without my participation.
I don’t need to be creating a relationship. Trying to construct excuses for their odd behavior and inability to read the room. IF she wanted a conversation, her initial response was in line with what I recall from the last time I was in the dance with her. From one afternoon swimming in her pool. I played it cool. Left after helping her move some plants at her apartment. She was struggling with some mighty demons. I thought they were primarily financial. There was a lot more noise under the surface.
I think I got her to meet me for coffee one other time. And even in this “event” she was behaving strangely. Coffee was at a place next to a real estate office she was hoping to freelance for. They are building a massive condo project in her neighborhood. The coffee turned into a pitch meeting at the office next door.
She’s still darling. I’m attracted to her creative drive and physical presence. She just fired a live round into my “hi, we haven’t spoken in a while” text.
Message received. Not gonna go to London.
The mom up East, still achingly close to love, will go on mute today as well. There is nothing I need to send her. No message to light her up or tick her interest. Only more universal “NO” signs.
No one is too busy. They are doing what they want to do. No distance is too far.
