post-RelationshipSlowDeath

“You must be a traffic ticket, because you’ve got ‘FINE’ written all over you”.

Ha. Good times. For the most part, a good weekend. Three whole days of nothing more, really, than self-stimulation and not too well deserved rest. But the underlying question of the weekend remained.

How will things progress from here? What will happen with the groundling, infantile relationship that had blossomed briefly before the advent of her friend? Not too long into the extended visit of her childhood companion, she had, for the most part, broken things off.

It had happened slowly at first. Of course, she wouldn’t want to hang out too much. Of course, things would be awkward with a third wheel around. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to share her bed any longer. At least until the friend was gone.

Then, however, the death knell had come. The step that would surely lead to ruin. It had been an otherwise normal phone conversation, but when she stated that he would not be welcome any longer in her friend’s presence, it had killed. She had claimed it was because the friend, so long from her last physical encounter, possessing so fully of the hidden and dark secrets that made Her her, subtly put her down, made her feel bad, when he was around.

Well, you can’t very well get rid of the friend, so, out with the temp bedbuddy, the soft and the niceness, he who would give so much, but who knew, deep down, that much of himself was a lie.

Not a really terrible lie; not one crafted malicious. But one brewed slowly from the fundamental misunderstanding between sexes, from the years of agony that had lead up to his first encounter. So often had he bungled things just before the moment of triumph. So often had he slipped, saying the wrong thing at just the wrong time, and turned the reaching, green tendrils that bore an end to pure auto-eroticism into the curling, snagging vines of embarrassment, rejection, shame and defeat.

So the lie had, for him, been born. Necessity had led him down the path of deceit and coercion, into the realm of auto-induced affection. It had spoken with his mouth the words that would bring a girl close, that would win over her confidence, and warm her to the thought of lying with him. And now…

What now? What had the years taught him? For one thing, he had never seen the lie through his current eyes, with his trove of experience. At least not until now. And was it really a lie? Or was it simply another one of the masks he wore? Was everyone capable of shutting off love, of twisting shut the pipeline of happiness and wonder, leaving behind cool indifference and hostile neutrality?

In that case, at the root of it all, his whole life was a lie. Always putting on the different masks, always adjusting to others, sensing their needs, calling up the files of past conversations with them, putting them at ease. Being ever the confident, capable, sometimes almost prescient, friend.

He had wanted to be close, loving, sharing of everything his. EVERYTHING HIS. He would have given her his life, had she but asked.

But everything for him, now, was nothing.

No cash. A broken tooth causing underlying annoyance edging on aggression, which would not be fixed until cash was available. A smoking habit. A penchant for self-pity, which was, thankfully, after years of nearly unconscious evaluation and probing, soon to be under more control. A taste for the random, risky encounter.

A propensity to give*. Money, love, feelings, advice.

Love…

But when you give, and don’t truly receive back, you slowly become annoyed with the recipient, and the giving morphs almost imperceptibly into resentment and indifference. Story of my fucking life.

But just last week, maybe the week before that, we had shared something soft again, on one of the now infrequent work breaks. We had stood outside, in the warm afternoon sunlight, and held each other as we had at the start of things. And that had given me hope. And hope, like love, spring eternal, and curse and praise them for it. For if the pain of heartbreak did not burn so darkly, we would forget the blinding inferno of love at its peak.

And so, it has come to pass that she now makes frequent references to a certain “friend”, with whom she has obviously spent many happy hours over the past fortnight. And guess what: his tooth ain’t broke, he’s got cash, and a fucking car, and is probably a really nice guy.

But he isn’t me, and it’s not fair, and I just want to be with her, and be nice to her, and give. And give. But life is pain, and the lords of credit are waiting with blood on their hands. So, let not in to self-pity. Stay the course, even if it seems crooked, and not like the grooves of others.

For I am the lie. I am the dark face of the skilled womanizer. But I am also the soft, bright face of unrequited, undying love. And to my final rest will I bear this tryx, this prong of opposites. And I will learn to bend it better to suit my will. And the slings and arrows of this comfortable life I live will not drag me down.

Indeed, they will drive me to see my future as I wish to see it, and grant me the tools to place myself in fate’s way; to make it so.

* This propensity to give is not simply that. It would be impossible to explain it fully as it extends so far back into my psyche that I cannot find its root, and it permeates so many daily, automatic functions that it seems an indelible part of me. Anyway, regardless of who asks, I will give to them. I will do my best not to let them know I have given to them, and refuse steadfast any attempt to pay back. Oh, I will accept compensation, should the other press hard enough, but such as they, for better or worse, are few and far between.