If I'm romantic, I keep it well hidden beneath the callouses of rejection and bad judgments. I'm always single now, perpetually dating and rarely in love. When I go to my parent's house in Spain, I'll sneak out the morning after I arrive, into the garage where our childhood is in sealed containers, open up the boxes hiding my adoloscence, (never unpacked from university six years ago) and root around for the letters. Old 'love' letters, on lined student notepads, cutsey Hallmark cards, paper thin and waxy. Love letters, though on reflection merely puppy love. In university he would send me two, three postcards a week, before we grew apart. I cultivated my
Mold accent into something more Oxbridge, discarded the unwanted 'a's, strived for perfection. A remnant from Mold?
Please. They spell it right in the States. He had to go.
The next one was a concession on my part. He was small, runty, cute in an under-nourished would-be writer way. I think I scared him with the blow job under the table at John's May Ball, 1999. Or perhaps it was the braces, the red hair streaked with purple, the decision to adore him after three dates, the fact I inadvertently spat beer all over his best friend's tux. "You were always in love with someone," laughs Robin. "Always". I found a letter from the runty one, a letter I forgot I received.
Colegio Santa Hilda, Hurlingham, Buenos Aires, Argentina reads the address. 'I'm sorry I was so crappy to you' comes right at the end, two years too late.
When I fell for the Antipodean circa 2002, I always wondered why he never felt regret for his callousness, his cruel words, the games, my tender little twenties heart listening over and over to Portishead, squeezing out the tears as if to convince myself of the validity of the futility of relationships. (It makes sense if you run through it slow) The runty one proved me wrong. If we ever meet again, we'll be friends. We may even, after a few pints, fall into an awkward semblance of intimacy once again, trying to recall what we ever found attractive in each other back in '99, dramatically failing, pretending to sleep until it's polite to leave the bed. The Antipodean never apologised, and yet the soon-to-be-married Argentinean did, right after the romantic weekend in Cannes (2004), two months before his marriage. I still receive the apologies even now, a message usually framed by the best friend's
correo electronico regrets,
his best friend whom I loved and adored for most of 2001.
"You have a best friend thing don't you?" mused someone to whom I confessed, an early morning, sun streaking in, lighting up dust motes as I lay against him with the sour taste of old vodka pleasantly polluting my mouth, the light sweat of a New York morning moistening our skin. He also said I must have met some real bastards. As a bona-fide cunt, I believe I have. 17 years old and I fucked his best friend. 21 and I fucked my best friend's ex. 22 - best friends again. Last month and, erm.... I guess I do. I suppose it means my taste is consistent. She says lamely.
It sounds like a lot, and yes, there's more, but oddly for all the weeping and the crushes and the passionate three dates I've shared repeatedly, in every country, with every type of man imaginable, I've always been alone. Never more so than dating those
whom you can never touch. I go for the challenge, I suppose you could say. It keeps me interested, keeps me travelling, and you know I'm a traveller. 46 countries and counting, though I feel New York is home. It's getting easier, yet when friends call to tell me their good news, their stability, the ground solid, staid and firm beneath their feet (new apartment, new job, marriage, pregnancy etc), I feel strangely wistful again, the bitter taste of my lost romanticism, now caught in the idealism of transience. I tried to get hitched up, of course, with those wielding resumes perfect for commitment. Good job, good family, good degree but good fun? No. Good friends? Forget it. Good in bed? I was supporting the Duracell empire single handed baby. For their part, desire probably wanes when you ask if they'll pay your rent midway through the first cocktail.
It's always easier to engineer the leaving argument, sleep soundly in your own bed before ever getting used to his breathing, slip away from that body insistent on spooning next to you. I am an expert at leaving, so yes, I'm always alone in
that way, but surrounded by friends on all continents, I'm never alone. I realise I've forgotten how to be the good girlfriend, travelling so much, moving swiftly on from one crush to the next, intimately acquainted with the dynamics of commitment phobia and the accompanying board game, where I'm always paying out my funny money for the utilities, never Park Avenue. Coming from a monogamous family of couples - the only single one out of five kids and parents still married after 40 years - I worry I should be bringing home the man for them to meet, to convince them I'm not, as my Grandma mused aloud when I was ten, "one o' dem lesbians".
But then after 27 years, the prospect of me bringing home a real boyfriend might just scare my parents as much as it would myself.
And anyway, I have writing to do. On to Spain. I'll catch up with you there.
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P.S.
Sitting in the sun next to the Seine with Piu.
"What did you do today?" she asks.
"I blogged about fucking men and their best friends"
"Oh," she says, and takes a sip of beer. "Together?"
I look at her. "Of course not. That's disgusting."
She nods genially. There is a pause.
"I don't know why I asked in such a normal tone."
She starts to giggle.
Bitch.
