Last night we talked about Emily. Not so much an actual person we both know, but the name. He has a very much respected and educated elderly aunt living in Africa who I accuse of advanced rad-ity in comparism to him called Emilia, and we had agreed that the North American version – Emily, would be a name just pretty enough for the daughter we might possibly have together some day. It was a strange conversation to be having, seeing as to how just five days ago he had packed a duffle bag and a bag pack of his stuff and stormed out of our apartment after a post-sex disagreement, screaming about how he had enough of my ruining of his life, while I clung on to his t-shirt like a pathetic tear stain begging for forgiveness. I have no memory of how I managed to peel myself off the floor/couch and into a friend’s car to buy the wrong sheets from IKEA, but I can remember the exact familiar sex-sweat-soap-deodorant smell of our skin as he left.
A sense of possibility, aside from my desire for him to bone me, had been one what attracted me in the first place – a bright, unfamiliar positive energy I craved in my life to help me with grafting a new skin. I believed that he could be the one who would make me unrecognizable to myself. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t like myself at that time. At 22, I was, and sometimes still am, frustrated, bored and idealistic. I craved a novelty, escape from the good old traditional social structures and pressures I was facing as a new university graduate surrounded by a fairly conventional family and peers. I had believed that he could help me get closer to my ideals, away from what I know, and away from myself. In hindsight, that might just be the reason why we disagree, and why we can’t get over our disagreements. But of course, the fool in me was adamant that love solves everything.
For the three years our relationship rested on intervals of drastic emotional fluctuations. When we were happy, I’d wake in the middle of the night comforted by the direct warmth of his skin, knowing that even in sleep he reaches out to me. As cheesy as it sounds, I thought I had found the home I’ve been searching for. The one home where I felt safe and wanted. For weeks, I would be giddy, overwhelmed with intense love, passions-a burning – until a disagreement comes up.
We had many phases like that that came and went, uncountable nights where I would watch the curve of his eyelashes in the dark, my heart wrapped in a scalding hoop of fiery love that promised me that forever is possible. But he has had enough of the ups and downs. It is not worth the effort and stress. I was slowing him down; I fucked him up, used up all his patience. Now he hugs the edge of the bed, his back to me, avoiding my cancerous touch even in his sleep. I still lay awake on the other side, feeling that sense of possibility bleed into that growing calcification of hurt that used to be my heart. How do I tell him he is the love of my life, that I don’t want to live without him, that I want him to be the father of my children, that I lived for those ups we had, that I would do anything to keep us up. That I will forgive, again. That I am sorry again, I will try, and try harder. I can barely even remember what brought us to this point anyway. But I guess that is just the way it is with these things.
He told me today that he is leaving for good. He has given up on me. So right now, and tonight, i suppose I would just have to close my eyes, listen to the echo of the pounding in my chest, and try to keep breathing.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
