Interlude
This is how it goes.
In the pocket of a pair of jeans last worn when the sun was working overtime instead of kicking it under a duvet of cloud and drizzle, you find a receipt for a Belgian waffle and the memory of the way he drenched his in chocolate and licked the remnants from his fingers clubs you over the head. And just like that, you’re spiralling; dumping the jeans on the floor and walking out of the room like it’s on fire.
The other day a song that the two of you sang in voices borrowed from cartoon characters carried through from the television in the living room to the kitchen where you stood. Your hands stilled over wedges of sweet potato and you were caught in that space between a smile and a sigh, where the flashback is almost exquisitely painful. Like poking a mouth ulcer with the tip of your tongue. You open your mouth to sing along but your voice isn’t having it and dies in the back of your throat. You go back to chopping vegetables and play like your knife can slice the music notes in half.
So you go on a few dates with the intention of moving on. This is what single people do and let’s be real, you miss the feeling of being a little bit adored. You know winter’s idling outside the door getting ready to kick it down and you’d rather have the option of a human hot water bottle to press frozen toes against than not. There is a boy with pretty eyes and prettier lips who tells you jokes and touches your arm; and there is one with better skin than you who seems interested but who you offend by bugging him to divulge his skincare secrets. He huffs and cuts his eyes at you while you rummage for a pen, unapologetic as fuck. Sometimes there is an unmistakable spark that you swear you’re prepared for. But when it comes, you pooh-pooh it then snuff it out. You accept kisses dusted against your cheek before you turn and delete the number out of your phone.
The clichés pile up on your doorstep and after stepping carefully over “there’s plenty more fish” and “if it’s meant to be,” you sweep them all under the rug and forget about them. They mean next to nothing anyway.
During a bout of cleaning, you pause to secure your headwrap and you spy a couple of photos and a forgotten birthday card. Punches to the gut don’t get more painful than when they are immortalised in grinning teeth and intertwined fingers. You slip them first into the black bag in your hand and then later into a paperback on your bookshelf all the while swearing you’ve gone beyond the point of trippin’ over your ex. And you carry on cleaning, using Pledge to scrub out the what ifs that have bloomed on every surface. Later, you make sure you don’t cry.
Sometimes you dream of him and that shit is so vivid that you wake with your heart beatboxing in your chest and you think “damn. Not quite there. Not yet.” Then you wonder, as you rub sleep from your eyes and beat your ‘fro into submission, if “there” exists and if it does, if you’d really want to become a resident. That would mean sacrificing the warm feeling (like a bellyful of Sriracha) when you think about the first time “I love you” was uttered (you were wearing a red sweater and mismatched socks.) Or the first kiss that left you lightheaded (you worried about whether or not your tongue was doing enough moving and not lying in his mouth like some terrible dead thing.) You decide, as you tug on your tights, that you don’t mind the idea of cruising down Nostalgia Boulevard a little longer. On the way out of the door, you switch your heels for some kicks.
So.
This is the look of things months after the fact. You walk a maze and play hide and seek with your emotions. Sometimes you scold yourself for dwelling or rehashing over and again in your mind but realise that this is what they call “normal”. You reconcile yourself to the fact that perhaps there will always be part of you that stands on tiptoes and peers over the wall you’ve erected to keep the past out and you make peace with the fact that that is not only OK but expected.
The next time the pretty-eyed boy calls, you pick up the phone.
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Stereo. 20-something aspiring bon vivant. London based. Exceptionally Nigerian. Partial to snark. My default setting is "wry". Jeans and blazers are my uniform. Landlady. Speed reader, tuneless singer, hoarder of words, drinker of Schloer; I am suspicious of most people, have zero tolerance for tomfoolery, have a vast DVD collection, worship at the altar of Al Green, own too many bottles of nail polish, have small eyes, small ears and giant hair and owe approximately 86% of my awesome to the Parents Typewriter.
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The Scintilla Project
There is so much poetry in these words and feelings. And yeah, I remember much of these periods of life. It does get better…
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i worry about you sometimes, because you are so strong and you’re just bounding through everything and playing the dating game. and i worry that you’re too tough, that the loss hasn’t sunk into you, you know? not that i want you to be sad, of course i don’t, but you know my feelings on how we must go through things, not over or around them. and then i remember when you write things like this that there was no reason to worry, because you are wiser than that, and because you take your wisdom and make poetry for us.
you are beautiful, this is beautiful, you are wise and this is wise.
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I actually just read a study the other day that says it takes an average of 17 months, 26 days to get over an ex.
That’s about half right to me.
These words, are beautiful.
Even now, as I am preparing to move and going through all my stuff, I find little reminders of her, and it almost breaks me.
I’m not sure you ever really get over someone.
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“using pledge to scrub out the what ifs that have bloomed on every surface” – yes, yes, yes.
i’d forgotten what this felt like and you reminded me so beautifully, which is right, i think -beauty & pain & leaving it behind & questions and memories. you took me back and said this. this is what it was like.
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Give yourself time to heal. Don’t rush into finding a ‘replacement’ until you feel ready to move on from your ex. It took me just over 2 years to get over my ex, even though there were zero tender feelings left after the breakup. Just now, I’m starting to think ‘I miss being in a relationship’ and I feel ready to see who is out there.
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There ought to be windows in these walls. It’s good to see what’s on the other side; sometimes it reminds you that you’ve made the right decision.
Also, it kills me when the well-meaning trot out that line about the many fish. MY GOD. If we had been with an ordinary old fish-type person, we wouldn’t be hurting and feeling their absence. No one wants a new ordinary old fish-type person.
I do think that good things come out of hurt. They’re forged, almost. I’m glad there are pretty eyes during this time, but I honor your hurt from here. It’s earned; you bought it with lots of devoted love.
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Your honesty is both heartbreaking and empowering. How do you do that? You have this way of holding your reader’s hand and walking her into and out of the aching.
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All that I can do is swallow the platitudes and nod my head in recognition. The pain here is tangible and there’s no way to promise that you won’t always have that little clutch at your heart, even years from now. The only thing that I can promise is that someday, some way, you will feel it and smile.
Wrapping you up in hugs.
B
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There *is* pure poetry in the narrative of your life. Are you familiar with Nikky Finney? If you aren’t, you need to be. And if you aren’t, I need to send you a book, ASAP.
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Oh, this is so wonderfully written… I have to tell you, I’ve been married to my husband for 17 years, and every so often, I still have dreams about my ex.
I don’t think love is as easy to erase as we wish it was, and I think that’s okay. When you love someone, they become a part of you in some way. When a relationship ends, it hurts like hell and you can only hope it doesn’t make you bitter, but you always have that little piece of them in your heart.
It does get better. Honest.
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We never forget the big loves in our lives. I broke up with my first love 17 years ago – and if I saw him today, I’d still be a little tongue-tied and a tiny bit heartbroken.
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