One day, months after our very last conversation, I found a letter that I had written to Him after he had first broken up with me when I went to Paris. It was the breakup after Paris and before Thanksgiving—Thanksgiving, of course, being known as “The Real Breakup.” Who could keep track of all of these epic and cinematic breakups? The fucker just loved to break up. And I just loved to take Him back when he would beg for my forgiveness. I was a sucker. I was played.
The letter I found was floating around in my documents folder and was simply titled “OctNotes.doc.” When I opened the file, I was immediately transported back to the place and feeling I had while I was first writing it. It was one of the many letters that I had written Him around that time (first thing in the morning, every morning), but this might have been the only one that I ever sent that was born of that specific point in our relationship: the point where I still believed in Him.
I could bitch and moan about the rise and fall, and the end of our story that never got its happy ending, but it would make no difference. What did matter was that at one point, before it all hit the fan or the Internet or any of that bullshit … one thing was absolute: I missed Him.
Every morning I wake up and start to write this letter.
Each time, I eventually relent and shut my laptop and force myself into getting on with the day at hand and hopefully the rest of my life. It’s become a habit, this ceremonial “beginning of the letter.” Now this habit includes a banana and a protein shake—I put on my gym shorts, make a protein shake in the blender I discovered hidden in the kitchen, and almost always awaken Duncan in the process. The banana, it always manages to fit into my routine as a substitute for the cigarette I always used to have first thing in the morning. Needless to say, a lot has changed over here.
In the morning especially, I sometimes think of the little things that I want to say to you—stupid little things that at one point made up our day-to-day interaction. Like how that cactus made a sudden turn for the better and began to grow an entirely new head. Or like how I saw the Goodwill lady with the silver dreadlocks spill an entire carton of milk in line at Lifethyme the other day. Just things that happen in my day that at one point would have happened in your day, too, were you still in the picture.
It’s amazing how swiftly it all changed. All of it. I stopped sleeping in weeks ago. It was my new thing. And it made everything seem different and cast in a strange and unfamiliar light—a colder and quieter morning experience than I knew possible. The morning air began to catch that telltale chill that I know all too well, and it threatened (or promised) to conjure the oncoming dread that happens every year. It’s on its way, and I know there is no way around it, so I’ve succumbed with open arms. I pulled out all of my coats from under my bed and readied them to be worn—elements be damned.
It wasn’t just the season that was changing, and perhaps that was what startled me the most. Life can be measured in seasons rather than years here in Manhattan. That being said, I’ve about 52 of them under my belt, and each one has had its own distinct signature. Like that one spring that I only drank iced chai tea. Or the winter that I wore leather Dolce & Gabbana gloves with silver knuckles every day. Eventually there would come that summer that I spent with you. Being that fall is now upon us, it’s easier to look at it in past tense. That was a thing that happened, and it was so … last season. Not one to follow the logical trend, I still have those awful Dolce gloves somewhere in the nightstand beside my bed. Naturally, I keep the memory of you not far off as well. Not hidden quite so deep in my nightstand.
When you told me that we could never be together, I did what was natural to me, the same thing I always did in the past when my heart broke: radical amelioration. In times past, it was usually as easy as dying my hair or getting a new tattoo. I knew this time was going to be a lot different, and I knew it would not be as easy. So I looked within instead of making myself up and became rather shocked at what I was finding. I knew I had to completely raze my life as I knew it, as happy and familiar with it as I had been in the past. It clearly wasn’t working out—for me or for anyone else. I looked at myself long and hard and became sickened with what I saw looking back at me. Suddenly it was clear why you had looked at me with the same disdain. I was a wreck. A glutton. A caffeinated Oscar Wilde with little to no care for the future.
I started with the basics. I decided to grow some balls and fully commit to fixing my body—I had to live in it, and it was beginning to feel like a dirty skin in need of molting. I quit smoking. Completely. Never again would I ever be a slave to that horrible feeling of wanting something so badly that it kills you (metaphor much?). In doing so, I had more time than I knew what to do with on my hands. Sure, at first I panicked. I told myself I would go to the gym every day instead (which I have, save one or two days). It was only a matter of days before I started to notice a difference in my body. My arms were suddenly larger, and I could feel my chest rise and fall as I descended the stairs in my building. I felt good. It felt like suddenly I could become something that I was not, or had never been before.
It was only a week before I decided to go on a date. I was so proud of the New Me, and I felt like someone else would surely like this new version of me as well. His name was Michael, and he’s 34, works at Google, lives by himself in Williamsburg, and has awesome hair and cool tattoos to boot. On our first date, we couldn’t decide where to go—in the City or in the Burg. It was his idea to meet in the middle of the Williamsburg Bridge for the first time and then decide which way to go from there. It was perfect. As the sun was setting, I made my way to the middle of the bridge and waited for him. The romance was so palpable that Woody Allen would have blushed.
Eventually we made our way into Manhattan (even though the coin toss told us to go to Williamsburg—fate be damned), and Michael produced a flask of Fernet and Diet Coke from his bag. The taste instantly brought me back to the first time I saw you at Von, and you cheerfully drank yours on the rocks and leaned on the bar. I hadn’t had a drink in a week or so, and it instantly went to my head and made everything seem that more real. Eventually we kissed. He came over, indulged in some PG-13 making out, and eventually went home, as he had to work in the morning.
The next time I saw Michael, he was noticeably aware that perhaps I was acting a bit strange. I had explained to him on our first date over Negronis at Freeman’s that I was freshly fallen out of love. He had guessed it, actually, probably because of how uncomfortable I had been in conversation that should have come with utter ease. He asked me things like “how was your weekend?” and I could only do my best and answer truthfully with “I’ve been having a very, very hard time.” He seemed to not mind that I was on the mend. It wasn’t until a later date when we were at his apartment listening to PJ Harvey and making out and drinking wine that he called me out on my shit.
I was lying atop him and running my fingers through his beard. I looked into his eyes and saw that they were looking back at me oddly—as if he could see what was playing in my mind. He could tell that something was amiss. So I pressed myself away from him and put on my new boots (I looked amazing—you should have seen me). I didn’t need to elaborate when I told him that I didn’t feel okay. It was all going too fast, and I didn’t feel right. Eventually I told him that I wasn’t ready, and that I had to go. This was, of course, after he told me that he didn’t think I was ready to be seeing someone. I didn’t speak to him again after I left.
I walked through Williamsburg, and it was cold. I didn’t recognize myself anymore—my aching muscles, my new boots, my lack of cigarette as crutch, my new Isabel Benenato sweater, Williamsburg, the lingering smell of Michael’s Comme des Garcons cologne. It was all alien to me, and it was terrifying. I sat on the street and put my head in my hands. I had no idea where I was or where I was going. All I could think about was you. It always is.
In my headphones, I listened to the song “Exit Wounds” by Placebo. It was from their new album, and it haunted me: “In the a
rms of another who doesn’t mean anything to you, there’s nothing much to discover. Does he shake? Does he shiver as he sidles up to you like I did in my time?”
I entered a bodega, bought a pack of Camels, took them outside, and threw the entire pack in the trash. I didn’t even open them. I knew I could never return to the person I used to be, no matter how easy it could be. I went home and threw things at the walls instead.
Oh—also, the laundromat on Thompson closed the other day. All of the machines have already been ripped out, and I have no idea where I am going to do my laundry now. I suppose I will have to start dropping it off and having it done across the street, which upsets me very much. It’s not a monetary thing, and I love the strange little Asian man who runs it. I just can’t help but think of all of the times I did laundry on Thompson, having The Best Day of My Life. Those were days that I will never, under any circumstance, be able to shake.
I can remember it clear as day how I pulled your underwear out of the dryer and held them against my face like a weird pervert. They were clean and warm and I loved them. They were yours. Your legs went into those holes, and I loved your legs. Your butt was in that seat, and I loved your butt. I remember smiling so hard that my feet took to action magically and started dancing around the dryers. You texted me, and thought I was manic or high. I was neither. I was just really, really in love.
For all the times you hurt my feelings or tried to escape or always had one foot out the door, I could not let them get in the way of the heart of the matter. The laundromat is gone and so is the summer and so are you. These are things I know to be true. But every day—every single day—I still think about the way you made me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt in my entire life. I have to keep telling myself that maybe it’s not you I’m sad about losing, but the feeling that you gave me. I don’t know how to get it back.
So I better myself. I lift heavier weights and I dress up like someone else, like the life I live is a costume. I meet and kiss new boys, and each time I do I cannot help but run away for fear of having my heart broken again.
I know it will get better eventually. I know that it always does, and hopefully I can figure out how to be happy with myself again. Or happy with someone else. But in the meanwhile I just wanted you to know that I start to write you this letter every morning when I wake up. This is actually the farthest I have gotten yet—I usually lose momentum and get disheartened after a paragraph or so. Every morning I wake up and feel instantly panicked that you aren’t there when I roll over. Every morning I wish that I could go get you coffee—just one last time. God, how I’d give anything just to get you coffee. What I’d give to have just one more glass of wine with you at French Roast and have you look at me like you used to. I’d give anything. Fuck. You melted me. You held me so close and said that you wanted to be closer than my skin and nearly crawled inside of me. I wanted it so, so badly.
Having started writing this letter so many times, I never really thought about how I would end it. My biggest fear, I suppose, was getting a letter back in return. I fear I already know exactly what it would say, so please don’t say it. Especially just to hurt me. I know you have moved on. I know you think you are better off now. I know that you thought we were doomed. I know I’m not the type of man you want to be with. It’s all been said a million times before, and we’ve run it all into the ground. So it’s not even worth opening up discussion again.
Then why even bother? Why even spend so much time every goddamn morning writing letters to you that I will never even send?
Because I love you. I loved you. I will always love you. You are the most beautiful man I’ve ever had the pleasure of being with, and it breaks my heart that I will never have you again. I don’t want you to ever doubt your decision to leave, but I do want you to know that I didn’t want you to. I’ve always wanted you, and I always will. You changed me in ways you will never know, and even if it was at the cost of my heart, I will never regret it.
Every day I move on a little more. I’m getting over it. But I’m also taking something with me as I go. And I’ll always think of you. Every day. This is never going to change. You changed me.
Today is the day that I finish this letter.
This is the day that I’m going to push “send.”
I miss you.
Brooklyn Bridge
Categories: Landmarks & Historical Buildings, Parks
Although I felt like it would never come, it finally did one day. I awoke and looked out my window and was greeted by clear blue skies and rays of sunlight filtering in. Perched outside of my window on my air conditioning unit was a dove bobbing its head and looking around for what I assumed was his bird wife. They came here every spring to screw on my air conditioner, and that’s how I knew that spring was finally here. I smiled as I propped myself up in bed and just stared out the window overlooking sun-splashed rooftops of the West Village. As I got up to open the window and let the day in, the dove caught me out of the corner of his eye and took flight out over the city.
I hurriedly threw on clothing and made a mad dash for the streets. My heels caught the slight breeze in the air, and I almost felt like I was skipping. It was amazing to think that just a matter of days ago, I had wanted to crawl into a hole and just give up on it all. As I fluttered around the Village, I had no idea where I was going. Frankly, it didn’t matter at all. All I knew was that the sun was shining and my New York was back and I finally felt like “it” was over. “It,” of course, being the winter of my discontent that I thought had ruined my heart forever.
I felt like my entire body was having an epiphany, and suddenly all of the right circumstances had become aligned in order to let me break free of the shackles enslaving me. I came to as if being resuscitated from the dead by electric shock to the heart: “clear” said the phantom doctor as he pushed the electric panels to my chest. With a jump, my body lurched up from its near paralyzing rigor and gasped for air. Suddenly, I was on the Brooklyn Bridge, and I felt like I had no idea how I got there. But my eyes were suddenly open and the sun was on my skin and I could feel the lightness coming back.
Maybe all of the horrors of the winter had been but a sick nightmare. They seemed so far away, even though they had just reared their ugly heads no more than a few weeks ago. Suddenly, I didn’t hate Him for all that he had done to me, nor did I hate myself for allowing it. I no longer felt married to the pain that he had made such a reality in my day to day. It was as if I had become unlocked, like all it took was the turn of a key to release me from the chains of sorrow. Sunlight was the key, and it filled me to the brim and restored my faith in humanity.
On the topic of keys, I had noticed something about the bridge that I hadn’t noticed before. I had been on the Brooklyn Bridge just about a year ago, with Him, and had failed to notice all of the locks that embellished the wires running all along it. They all had names and engagements and testaments of eternal love carved into them—it was just like that bridge in Paris. It was slightly less grand-scale, but still the same concept. People from all over the world had come here, to this place, and fastened locks to represent their steadfastness in love. It was as if to say that love really did stand a chance when it was true, and it could in fact be made into something of permanence. Too many people these days saw the notion of love as being “locked” or “trapped” into something, but I knew that there was more to it than that. Love should be something that frees you and liberates you and makes you stronger—it’s that permanence and strength that the lock represents. Delving further into metaphor, I wondered what the key was in this equation. What was the key to making love stay?
The hardest thing I learned that winter was that the real battle was not to love another person—that comes easy and free when it’s right—but to love oneself. Through all of the madness that I had endured in my love for Him, I found it easiest not to blame or hate Him for all of his mistakes, but to take it all out on myself for not being strong enough to handle them. I re
alized there on the bridge that I was not made of iron, and I wasn’t like one of those locks that would require heavy-duty bolt cutters to ever be removed. I was fragile, flesh and blood, and basically a blathering pile of poems and girly love songs trapped in skin. That had to be okay, because I could never be anything else. This was who I was. I was a man enraptured with love for a city and a season and a feeling, who would never be anything but.
I’d seen the bridges of Paris, the most romantic side streets of New York, and the most pristine coral sand beaches of Tahiti in my short time on this planet. I felt connected to them each in a different way at a different time. Love has many different disguises, but you know it when you see it. I was still working on it, but that was at least what I had come to know.
I was so happy that spring was back, and with it came the doves and walks on the bridge and sunlight and, most importantly, my heart.
Chapter Eight
IT BLEW MY MIND THAT the whole affair with Him had only lasted a year. Almost to the day.
It had felt like a lifetime, probably because I had spent nearly every single day with Him. In the midst of our epic breakup, he had found it necessary to tell me over and over how much he had never really loved me or never even had fun, and that our entire relationship had been one big fight. This infuriated me the most, which was probably why he said it. I knew it was a spiteful lie, but it still stung. It couldn’t have been farther from the truth, yet he had managed to almost get me to believe it. We had several fights and half-hearted separations and passionate disagreements—that was the honest truth. However, these were all just a few really bad days within the course of an entire year. As stupid as it was, it was just easier for Him to see all the bad things and never the good.
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