So long, meaning bye

musings on an ex

My greatest expense, what I was so desperate for, was a very poor fit. There I was, in this little room I dearly loved, with a man I previously could hardly stand. Somehow, I became convinced I had to learn to like him, that, as a young woman, I simply needed to acquire the taste. I took sips like I would a glass of Jack… straight up, no Coke.

I caved and continued to cave; all his bullshit actually went down easily, for I am unfortunately used to the bare minimum if anything, as regards attention. Waiting a long time for love actually just makes you mistake the affair entirely. It has you second guessing everything and letting so much slide as you pretend to be carefree and easy. I hardly know now what I was even intending; all I knew was I wanted a man.

So, I was lonely, I begged for a man. I was lucky, really; he was kind to a point, but unnerving and careless. I – at the time – was determined to try anything with my own body, and I too was careless. So, we fit. Just two nobodies with part-time jobs and lowest of the low rent. I was a lazy fuck, and he couldn’t care less if I wanted it (mostly though I wanted it). I paid for my own drinks, I had a car (always the driver), he bought meals, I bought tickets. I would flirt with my customers – part of my job – he didn’t mind it. Our pillow talk was mindless.

I think of him now as a nice but ill-fitting, entirely synthetic outfit – think pleather jacket, polyester pants, nylon shirt, pornstache type of guy. He had me sweating and smelling worse off than I was. He was also a liar, but so what? I call him my greatest expense because of the state I put myself in. I wanted anything, settled for just about anything, and he is what I got. Poor, poor me, I cried so desperately. I would never profess to have come out of this affair a wounded angel. Who can come out of any relationship a saint? My only victory is that I know more of myself, more of what I lack, more of what meanness I am capable of, what laziness, what love, kindness, and bravery. I know more of me.

Now, I have no desperation; that sensation has luckily been smothered, like flour on a grease fire. So, then what’s next? I’m a much better drinker, Four Roses on Ice, or Amaro with a twist. I’ve had sex dreams of the new Superman, so I can only assume I’m going up from here. And I will surely rise to meet this occasion, for I am already nearly there.