The Most Inexcusable Slights

Disclaimer: This entire post was written and posted while still quite intoxicated. Please be mindful.

I feel utterly disrespected, like a nobody. Trying to pull the wool over my eyes … Imagine!

The Flirt was part of my group tonight. I met Rachel* for dinner. We met up with other friends later. The Flirt was among them. He is newly returned from a trip to Louisville, KY. I knew he met up with his Kentucky booty call this week. It was inevitable. I can’t help but have low expectations of him. His carnal weakness is transparent. I am mildly offended by it. Only mildly because I know I have no right to be. We experienced a few brief moments of indulgence. They were nothing more. The only offense is that he has no more respect than to immediately jump into another woman’s bed. Disrespectful to her. Disrespectful to me.

We are out tonight playing pool. Rachel quizzes him about his relationship with this person. He refers to her as his ‘girlfriend.’ She tells me this, but I feign ignorance. We go about with usual flirting and horseplay. Rachel thinks we should play up tempting him as a gag. I’m not as enthusiastic. If he has serious feelings for this person and is attempting a relationship, we should be respectful, regardless of our misgivings. After much time has passed, and Rachel has begun her shenanigans, we are locked in a three-way hug. He plays up to it, wanting the attention. Rachel asks something out of my earshot. I hear his response of, “She wouldn’t like this at all.” It was then Rachel’s turn to shoot pool, so she steps away. I ask him what he meant by that. Who was the ‘she,’ and why wouldn’t she like it? He confides that she referred to the girl in Kentucky. I ask if they are involved. He responds that she is, but he isn’t as much. I ask, “You saw her this week, didn’t you?” He responds that he saw her and f***ed her brains out. He never indicates a serious connection to this person, even after I chastise him for sleeping with someone who has obviously taken things more seriously.

We still flirt, because by all indications to me, he isn’t involved with anyone. He makes several references to wanting me to bl** him. He’ll stay out later if I’ll bl** him. I ask if he’s coming home with me, as a test really, in response to which he asks if I’ll bl** him. In other words, I don’t offer enough perks to be worth his time. When the last game of pool is finished, he leaves.

Rachel is chatty with me once he is gone. I reveal to her what a different story he gave me, but no. He had indicated to her that he needed to leave to avoid temptation. It was the right thing for him to do. The story he gave her was entirely different than the one given me. My only conclusion is that he felt a need to keep his options open. The girl in Kentucky is hundreds of miles away. Chances are slim that it will work. Knowing The Flirt, I can’t see it working. He tells me a different story in order to keep me in his back pocket. Never mind our friendship. Never mind how I trust him. He won’t be forthcoming with me out of fear … fear of losing a booty call, no matter that it isn’t quite real. No matter that I won’t do him, or bl** him, he wants to keep me on the sidelines, just in case. I deserve better. I believe I’ve been gracious, never having expected more than simple friendship … never reading more into our encounters. One thing I do believe I should expect from a friend with whom I’ve been so intimate is straightforward honesty. I don’t like hearing a different story from another friend than the one he tells me. Knowing where I stand should be a right, not a privilege. Being treated as a friend and not just a booty call is also the least of respect I should be shown. I’m tired of being trod upon. I’m just tired.

* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.

What's Your Line?

Let’s talk about pickup lines, boys and girls. You know … those wonderfully glib words used as introduction to desirable members of the opposite sex, hopefully rendering us irresistible. Guys probably have their favorites. Girls have their lists of most hated. I know I do. There must be a great divide. Guys don’t use their lines in front of girl friends. Girls are almost always picked up when their guy friends aren’t around. There is no natural method by which pickup lines are critiqued. Can I help you guys here? Can I be your bridge over troubled water?

Case in Point: My Most Hated Line EVER

Several weeks ago, Rachel* and I were engrossed in deep conversation when a guy approached saying, “Hey! Smile, you guys. Lighten up!” Does this sound like a pickup line to you? Well, the boy sat down next to me and chatted for several minutes before stepping back to the bar. The immediate effect of his comment was to make Rachel and me more self-conscious about our demeanor. We worked harder to look carefree and happy. Next thing we know, he’s back … telling us to cheer up again. After hearing this five times, I was more than a little annoyed with him. He gave me his phone number on a napkin, which stayed crumpled in my purse for about a week before I threw it away. Last weekend, same line, different guy. And, like the first guy, he thought repeating it made it better.

Why is this line so terrible? First, it’s unimaginative. Another word for it is lame. What kind of response does a guy expect? It gives us very little to work with. There isn’t much to say in response, which must be why they resort to repetition. Repeating a tired line, however, only makes it more tired. Trust me. Please, if you have to say it, say it only once. We can probably forgive your bad line if you aren’t cramming it down our throats. Secondly, it’s insulting. You see a woman to which you are attracted. You want to make a connection and get your foot in the door, so your best method is to tell her how unapproachable she looks? I know that isn’t your intent, but that’s exactly what is communicated. Then, after making her aware that she looks sour and after she’s tried to improve on it, you tell her to “smile.” That is when your ship begins to sink. You might as well have said, “Nice try, but you failed.” No sane woman wants to go out with someone who basically put her down in his very approach.

I know there are more bad lines out there, many of them worse than this, but I’m not going into lengthy analysis of them all. I wouldn’t mind hearing your most hated lines and what makes them terrible in the comments section of this post. Let me clarify what makes a line bad:

1. Lack of imagination. Don’t make random, impersonal comments. “Hey. How are you guys doing?” falls into this category. It sounds like a restaurant manager checking on customer satisfaction. Please avoid it. It isn’t fatal, but you don’t want her thinking, “Oh no. Here we go again.”
   
2. Unengaging remarks or questions. Making impersonal remarks limits her choices for response. While the line mentioned in #1 is friendly, her response will be, “Good. How are you?” and that’s about all she can do. This sort of line will only earn a response equivalent of “Hmph. That’s nice,” if anything at all. If used, you must have a follow-up line.
   
3. Unintentional insults. This happens more frequently than you may realize. Rule of thumb, if it implies anything negative at all, it’s an insult. Telling her to smile or cheer up implies that she looks bad. Telling her to change anything about herself, no matter how insignificant, implies that she isn’t good enough as she is. You will majorly strike out if you do so.
   
4. Grotesque flattery. This is when you pile it on so thick, or the compliments are so contrived, a girl feels like she needs to be hosed off. A little flattery goes a long way, but a lot of flattery sounds insincere. Back off, dude!

So, What Makes a Great Pickup Line?

Would I leave you with no guidance on how to do it right? What kind of pal would I be?

You may not have noticed, but my last post included an example of a great pickup line. While Rachel and I tried looking inconspicuous as a group walked by, my sister boldly stared and then engaged one of them with a simple remark.

“Looks like y’all are having fun!”

I know what you’re thinking. That’s too easy!! Doesn’t it fall under rule #1 by being unimaginative? Well, you’re right. It could, and maybe even should, but on that night, it didn’t, and I’ll tell you why. First of all, it was completely positive. People know that having fun makes you look like you’re a fun person, and everyone wants to think they’re fun to be around. It was complimentary. And while sounding rather generic, it wasn’t random. It indicated that his specific behavior had caught her attention. Next, it communicated an active interest. The line implies a tag of “…and I want to have fun, too!” Who can resist being told they look great, they look interesting, they would be fun to hang around, and someone wants to know them because of it?! Everything you want to communicate in one line! Now, was that so painful?

I must concede that, given the circumstance, this line may not always be as effective as it was that night. You could encounter someone that just went through a bad breakup, or who simply has a bad attitude that night or maybe permanently. (Well, looking at that list, why would you want it to work? Who needs extra baggage?) What I’m trying to say is that you should always have a backup. If the guy to whom Sis spoke had been shy, she would have gotten no more from him than a smile and maybe a thank you as he walked by. I like shy guys. I don’t want them exiting my orbit so quickly. So, what would be the next move? Ask a question. Questions require interaction. They demand response. And remember, you want it to start an engaging conversation. Generic and open-ended “how are you’s” won’t cut it. Ask about something specific and make it personal. My sister might have followed up her line with, “Do you like to dance?” “Do you dance a lot?” “Do you go to dance clubs?” and so on. Once he responded, she would have an answer to build on. “What are your favorite clubs?” or “I don’t like those either. I prefer live music. Are you familiar with any local bands?” By all means, guys, please have a full conversation with us before asking for our number. I may be an oddball in this regard, but I find it distasteful to ask for a girl’s number based purely on initial attraction. I’m very distrustful of it, also, for what have you offered to make her want your phone call? And don’t use that other very tired old line, “I just want to get to know you better.” At the end of a long conversation, it’s okay, but when you don’t know anything about her at all, where do you get the ‘better’ from? My immediate thought is always, “I’m right here, so get to know me.” I have a theory that guys who do this don’t want to get bogged down with one girl. There are too many women to meet and phone numbers to acquire. You can tell me if I’m wrong, but this is the impression I get, just so you know.

So, let me clarify what makes a good pickup line. I wouldn’t mind hearing about your good ones, as well, but be warned. If it’s one you use, you may open up a can of worms (i.e. criticism) by posting it here.

1. Show specific interest. Letting a girl know that something specific about her caught your attention will catch hers.
   
2. Be complimentary/positive. Tell her that she has an engaging smile, that she walks like a dancer, that her laugh is infectious. Don’t gush. Just one will do, and make it sincere. Don’t say it if it isn’t true. What made you notice her? Tell her. (Within reason. Colorful comments about her booty will not impress.)
   
3. Ask questions. Make certain there is one in your arsenal that requires more than a one-word answer, even if it has to be the follow-up question. Specific questions indicate more than a passing interest. The type of questions you ask and the interaction that ensues also tells her a lot about you.
   
4. Relate to her as an individual. If you notice a cross around her neck, a band logo on her jacket, or a movie star’s image on her handbag, she’s telling you something about herself without saying a word. This is her interest, maybe even her passion. Asking her about it is an easy way to start conversation, and your noticing it will make a good impression.

The best advice I have about pickup lines is to stop thinking of them as a means for getting a phone number or making a date. (Of course, if all you’re interested in is the proverbial booty call, this much work is contradictory to the easy lay.) Focus instead on the conversation being your ultimate goal and enjoy it. Think of the pressure it relieves. While hoping the conversation is a precursor for more, enjoy the moment for what it is. Meeting new people, sharing common interests, is a gift in itself. Not every girl you meet is going to be worth a phone call anyway. Why waste your time and hers?

* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.

A View from the Sidelines

I wonder if I could invent a career of sports casting the bar scene. While sitting unobtrusively in an alcove, I would give play-by-play accounts of the various dramas, peppering my commentary with witty insights into events. What do you think? Is there a niche for this? All I know is that it would be a blast.

Saturday night. The scene is Bojangle’s, a favorite neighborhood bar newly re-opened. Partners in crime include the ready-for-anything Rachel* and my never-meets-a-stranger sister. We arrive around 8:30pm. The place is full but not yet packed. A band is prepping. We easily find a bar table with a view of the stage. Our table is next to the rail that surrounds an elevated bar. It’s an easy-going night, for us anyway. We enjoy comfortably sporadic conversation while observing the surroundings, noting the new tables and chairs, trying to remember if the painted concrete floor had formerly been tiled. I notice a scene playing out at the rail by our table. Patrons standing by the rail easily forget how close they are to the tables below and mistakenly feel a sense of privacy. A handsome, dimple cheeked young man wearing a knit cap is flirting with a pretty young woman in jeans and a button down shirt. She is flirting in kind. Both are clearly intoxicated and looking for a hook-up. In dance-like movements they move closer only to separate and move closer again. Her hand rests on his wrist, inviting him to touch her in return. Not garnering the response she wants, she moves in even closer and escalates to running her hand across his chest. I can barely stifle a guffaw. I look to share this with my sister, but she is already transfixed by the show. I’m facing the couple’s profiles. Blatantly watching them in such close proximity becomes uncomfortable, so I settle for quick glances.

After a distracting conversation with Rachel, Sis fills me in on the couple’s progress. Dimples apparently backed off from Button Down causing her to seek comfort from his buddy, an older, attractive man wearing a t-shirt. T-shirt was previously in conversation with a girl in a halter top and jacket, who then appeared peeved by his redirected attention. We spend many minutes trying to determine if Dimples and Button Down know each other or have just met. Dimples returns from the bar and resumes flirting. Sis notes that T-shirt doesn’t enjoy Halter Top’s attention. The band kicks in. Dimples leads Button Down off of the platform, and T-shirt follows. Halter top, apparently caught off guard by his departure, yells “Hey!” and follows. In front of the band, the foursome dance in couples. I ask Sis if we should bet on how long it takes the young couple to start making out. They appear to be on the verge of it several times. The other two aren’t doing so well. Halter Top does her best to be seductive, pulling her jacket back to reveal white shoulders, eventually removing it. She provocatively rotates her hips. When all else fails, she resorts to groping her own breasts.

This is where I begin my commentary of the night, explaining to Sis that T-shirt is the wingman, sacrificing himself so his buddy can get the pretty girl. He indulges Halter Top as little as possible, but cannot reject her outright for the sake of the team. Halter Top isn’t bad looking, but had fallen into the unfortunate role of “the ugly friend.” Any physical attributes were undermined by her air of desperation. Meanwhile, the other couple dances intimately until Dimples takes a seat at the dance floor’s edge.

“Watch. She’ll sit in his lap shortly,” I predict. “Watch…. Watch… there she goes…. Woops, not quite… now… now… there she goes. Ah, there it is!”

Halter top tears herself away to make a request of the band. T-shirt takes this opportunity to approach the other couple. I offer my take on their interaction.

“T-shirt is telling Dimples that he can’t take it anymore. He tried being the wingman, but this woman is getting on his nerves. He’s sorry, but he needs to get away from her. Dimples tells him that it’s ‘okay, man.’ He’ll take care of it. They’ll get her off of him, just don’t leave.” Dimples heads toward the bar, so T-shirt talks to Button Down. “He’s telling her how sorry he is, but Halter Top came on too strong. She says it’s okay. She understands. He’s telling her what Halter Top did to make him reach his limit. She laughs because she knows what he’s talking about. Their gestures indicate that they see eye to eye.” His mood is lightened. They walk toward the bar to join Dimples, leaving Halter Top to dance by herself. Rachel and I duck our heads to appear oblivious, but my sister … she blatantly watches them walk toward us. She speaks briefly to T-shirt.

“Looks like y’all are having fun,” she says. T-shirt rolls his eyes and makes a comment about how it could be better. They move on to the bar. After a few minutes we notice them leave without Halter Top. Rachel thinks she saw her leave with a group from another section of the bar.

There’s a story every night we go out. There was the night at T.P. Crockmier’s during the Christmas season. The place was packed with parties. Our table had a spare chair that was often requested, but never taken because there was no room for it anywhere else. Eventually a handsome man asked if he could sit. He was part of a group at the next table, but couldn’t squeeze in with them. He was there with his wife and her friends … well, his ex-wife, he qualifies, but Rachel doesn’t hear. Before he sat with us, we had pointed him out to each other. He wore no ring. She began chatting with him out of friendliness. I managed to warn her about the wife at the next table, but we remained friendly with the guy. Shortly, his wife, or ex-wife, or soon to be ex-wife comes by our table and screams at Rachel, “If you want him, you can have him!” Rachel was flabbergasted. We were all speechless. His wife and her group left. We urged him to go with her, but he refused, remaining at our table all night. He alluded to getting a ride to Pensacola with my sister, which she ignored. He played the pity card, saying he would have to walk home. We told him to get a taxi. We offered to call one for him. Last we saw of him, he was walking out of the bar and into the night.

A few weeks later, again at TP’s, I catch the eye of an attractive man across the bar. Rachel mentions him a few minutes later, but he’s wearing a ring. I dare not catch his eye again, but much later he walks over to the waitress’ station that’s by me. He strikes up a conversation, asking where I went to school, trying to name people I might know. We haven’t talked long when a woman enters, strides up to him, and announces herself. “I’m his wife,” she says very pointedly to me. I greet her graciously, and try ignoring their ensuing argument. She tells him that she’s going to have one beer and leave. I’m aware of her sitting in his old seat across the bar for the next half hour. He is nowhere to be seen. A couple of girls pity her sitting miserably alone and try consoling her. After a single beer, she leaves as promised. When Rachel and I leave after another hour or so, we pass her husband re-entering the bar. We warn him about the dangers of not going home. He’s as concerned about it as the last guy. It’s not a glowing testimony for marriage.

In any case, I’m always entertained by the antics of people in that setting. If only there was some method of capturing it and sharing it. All the microcosms of society, all the otherwise subtle nuances of human behavior are found under the magnifying glass at your friendly neighborhood bar.

* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.

Why Did It Move Me....

Why did it move me, whatever he said? Why do I still savor the few delicious words that survived my alcohol induced fog? Why do I long for more?

Last week Rachel* and I enjoyed an impromptu girls’ night out so much that we decided to repeat it, this time including our lazy, undependable friends. I knew it was probably a mistake. Those evenings always turn out so great just because they are impromptu … no expectations. However, I couldn’t resist inviting everyone once plans were secured with Rachel and Miranda*. We were to meet for dinner, move from there to TP’s, and then head downtown to hear my nephew’s band. I didn’t ask for any confirmations unless they intended to eat dinner. Otherwise, they could just catch up with us whenever, if ever. The first mistake is leaving plans open like that. While saying that it doesn’t matter whether anyone else shows up, you can’t help but watch for them.

It was just the three of us at dinner. Looked like it would be just us three for the night, but then The Flirt showed up. The party band kicked into gear, and the primarily middle-aged patrons hit the dance floor. We amused ourselves with watching them and pointing out the funny ones, the drunk ones, or the pathetic ones. The Flirt sat across from me. Having only finished off my first drink, I had difficulty maintaining eye contact. I longed for the booze to set me at ease. We’d had one other encounter since Halloween night, even more intimate, and it was the last time I saw him. If we had spoken more in the time since, it wouldn’t have felt so awkward … if I didn’t know about his little “booty call” in Kentucky during my New Year’s Eve party, or if I hadn’t confronted him over instant messenger about that and other perceived slights. I noticed that he wasn’t quite himself, either, but I doubted it had to do with me. He asked where the guitar friend was, and I replied that I had no idea … that I hadn’t heard from anyone really, and didn’t know who would show up. I realized that he missed male company that would echo his machismo. He spoke on his cell phone often, some received and some outbound calls, never offering the names from the other end. After another hour, he announced that Big Red and two other friends were coming. Into my third drink, I was finally comfortable with him.

We stayed and danced a little more after Big Red and the girls arrived. I could tell they weren’t very impressed with the band or the crowd, but they did get into the party atmosphere a little. One of the girls took The Flirt to the floor for a slow dance. Rachel turned to me and said, “The Flirt has two women here that he’s fooled around with.” I told her that I’d thought of that. He had both of his “booty calls” in the same place at the same time. We both laughed. His dance partner was the one who came as “Cher” to my Halloween party a year ago, and with whom he had conspicuously disappeared that night. I watched them. It meant nothing to me, and yet I wished he had asked or would ask me to dance … a small stroke of the ego, a reassurance that he enjoyed having me in his arms. I announced that we would leave once the band did their “party thing” – a dance gauntlet of sorts. Try as I might to push the girls out there, they wouldn’t go, but Rachel and I both showed off. Afterwards, we collected the checks. I handed mine over to The Flirt. He owed me money from last summer, and since I knew I would never get the cash out of him, I told him that he was paying for my drinks all night. He was surprisingly cooperative.

Rachel, Miranda and I arrived downtown together. The Flirt arrived by himself. The rest of our group had abandoned us for other entertainment. After The Flirt bought my first drink at the bar, Rachel told me that my guitar friend was there with some friends. He had informed her that since it was past midnight, it was technically his birthday. I waited a couple of minutes before approaching him, repeating what I’d heard and wishing him a happy birthday. He introduced me to his friends. I carefully repeated each name to secure it for memory. I recognized two of them. The other two were unfamiliar, and I wondered if the woman next to him meant anything special. Rachel wondered the same when I returned to her. Then, while we danced a few feet from the stage, my guitar friend approached to stand behind us. The girl came with him, dancing provocatively against him. Question answered. I was disappointed, even a little hurt. I had known something was up. I had even offered him a chance to come clean about it during a conversation about him missing the New Year’s Eve party. Why didn’t he take the bait? Why are men such cowards with women, acting as though we’ll shatter if they indicate disinterest in us? I would have rather learned about his new girl then rather than being surprised by it in person. Nonetheless, I kept up my spirited, care-free appearance, and suppressed my ego-bruised tears. I frolicked and laughed in hopes of putting a little damper on his ego … making him wonder why I didn’t seem to care. I was thankful to have The Flirt there, using him as a buffer from feeling like the undesirable cast-off.

It didn’t seem long before The Flirt told me he was leaving. I walked with him to the bar. As he took care of his tab, I thanked him for being there. It turned out great for me that he was with us. I asked him to stay … offered to let him sleep in my spare room if he rode with us, but he had reached that point I’d seen so often, where he starts shutting down. As I spoke with him, I noticed my guitar friend closing out his tab down the bar. “Oh, there he is,” I uttered in mid-sentence.

“Who?” The Flirt asked, whipping around to see. He incorrectly guessed at some other guy.

“What? No, GF!” (get it? Guitar Friend…?) “You know, we dated for a couple of months,” I clarified.

“No! Well, that would have been good to know.” I didn’t know what he meant by that. I couldn’t believe he had been so oblivious.

I looked at him imploringly and asked, “Why do all the guys dump me to go out with homely girls.” Here was the crux of my pathos. My vanity aside, they had moved on. They each found someone new. Feelings or no feelings involved, both the SoHB and my guitar friend were involved with new people while I wallowed in singleness. At that moment all I felt was the rejection.

His arms engulfed my shoulders. I clung to his waist, holding him close for comfort, but also to make my guitar friend suspicious of us. I desperately wanted to avoid being the pitiable spurned girl … probably overdid it. I must have blamed sex for my rejections, for he cooed soothing words saying that it doesn’t matter, not when you care for the person.

“Do you know what happened with the SoHB?” I asked, not caring whether he wanted to hear. “He told me he had feelings for me, but then decided it was more important to get laid.”

“Oh, well, I’m not saying…” he began, but his words didn’t reach my ears. I may have elaborated on my experience. I may have painted a brief verbal picture of the last intimate moments I shared with the SoHB, but I can’t remember. “He wasn’t right for you, anyway,” he said.

“I know. I know, but it hurts,” I replied.

His head was bent near mine in order to better hear. He stilled with his lips near mine. I thought we would kiss, but he didn’t move when I reached for him, responding, “No, I’d better not.”

“Come on, it’s just a kiss. What harm is a kiss?” I asked, but he wouldn’t.

My memory becomes vague. I recall him saying how tempted he was during our last encounter … how much he had wanted to take things to their natural conclusion. Then he said the words that reached my deepest fears and consoled me best. He told me that I was doing it the right way, and that he admired me for it. I was nearly in tears as I thanked him. We embraced a final time, and he left.

Were they nothing more than placating words from a friend wishing to console me? Was there any truth to them? If not, does it matter? The fact is that he said what I needed to hear, whether or not the sentiment was genuine. I run them over in my mind. Someone who chose a different path, and still chooses it, admires me for mine. I am moved. I am inspired. I’m grateful.

* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.

Reasons to Avoid Dating a Drinker

This may seem like a no-brainer, but believe me, you, too, can be lured by the tragic beauty of a drinking man.

While out with friends this weekend, I ran into a guy with whom I had one date. The reason we dated only once was because he drank 6 beers to my 2 during a couple of hours, and our conversation gave me a pretty good idea of his regular drinking habits. Having been through the ringer with a heavy drinker, I saw the signs and ran like the wind. The two occasions I’ve encountered him since have served to reaffirm my decision. He was my single experiment with picking someone up in a bar. I will NEVER do that again.

Anyway, seeing him and remembering why I didn’t want to go past that first date inspired me to create a list of reasons why we should avoid dating drinkers, based on my first-hand knowledge.

1. He will endanger you physically and emotionally through his reckless disregard. Endangerment can come in the form of violence, but it can also be his drunken driving, his lack of self-control and hurtful words during your attempts to aid him, and enticing you to adopt his self-destructive lifestyle as your own.
   
2. Some of your most bonding moments will occur while he or both of you are drunk, rendering them almost completely worthless. The endearing words that you take to heart won’t be remembered by him the next day. A tally of all the tender moments occurring while under the influence will reveal that nearly the whole relationship is built upon alcohol.
   
3. His pattern of alcohol abuse includes denial, which you will be unable to derail. Even if he acknowledges a tendency toward drinking too heavily, he won’t consider it significant enough to address. His lack of accountability will extend beyond his drinking and into your relationship. He will miss appointments, overlook important events, and neglect your feelings, all with a plausible excuse … at least completely plausible to him. And any fault you find with something that occurred while he was drinking will fall under the “that doesn’t count – I was drunk” excuse.
   
4. You cannot fix his drinking by building up his self-esteem, raising awareness of his self-destruction, or loving him enough that he’ll change for you. All of his previous girlfriends have tried, and you are NOT better nor do you mean more to him than them. He will probably look to you as a rescuer, which will bolster your desire to help him, but his idea of a rescuer isn’t the same as yours. Instead of helping him, you will be one of his excuses for why his life isn’t so out of control. If he genuinely wanted to change, he would have started the process on his own.
   
5. Instead of competing against other women, your competition for his affection will be the invisible force of alcohol. His mistress has enticements no woman can match. The security you offer is substantial and real, but establishing it takes commitment and work from both of you. You will be willing and eager to face the trials which establish intimacy, but these are the very things he wishes to avoid. It is the trials of living from which he wishes to be rescued, and you cannot compete with alcohol in the effectiveness of accomplishing that task.

I was sucked into dating a drinker because I had never been around drinkers and didn’t know what I was dealing with until it was too late. There may be plenty of you who think you’ll never be naïve enough to fall for one, as I once believed. To those of you, I wish you the best of luck, but also a warning. This line of thinking makes you very vulnerable. During those crucial first days and weeks, you’ll be tempted to give him the benefit of the doubt. Choosing to disregard those early warning signs will be your downfall. The truth is that most heavy drinkers are really great guys underneath, but they have so many invisible barriers around that part of themselves, you’ll never break through to reach it. Some of you may see your current situation in the words written here. I hope you will be inspired to acknowledge the destructive cycle you’re in and put a stop to it. Remember that if he isn’t doing his part to meet your needs, it isn’t a real relationship. Relationships require effort from both parties. He should be recharging your batteries, not draining them. You can’t fix him, but you can make positive changes in yourself. Do it.

Blessings in a Special Blend

It is a cup of Santa’s White Christmas from Barnie’s. I’m welcomed by its soothing aroma. It is a gift to myself … a congratulations. With satisfaction I sip it slowly, knowing that somewhere there is a person I cared for, someone who claimed affection for me, who simultaneously may experience a moment of greater significance or excitement, but isn’t enjoying it nearly as much. Not needing him has become my ultimate revenge, without the strident accompaniment of anger and helplessness. Here I sit with my simple cup of coffee, loving my life despite his not being in it … celebrating my liberation in several small indulgences: An uncustomary glass of wine with dinner. A luxurious soak in the tub, complete with bath salts and a good book. Having a tug of war with Gert, my mini schnauzer, who shows me what pure, uncomplicated affection is. I had forgotten how beautiful a day’s simplicity can be. There are so many blessings, but the greatest one is recognizing them.

I think of that poor man, made all the poorer by the fact he isn’t able to share in these little joys. He has his pleasures too, but moments of true value are lost on him. Escape from reality is found in select bars all over town. He runs from his desolate emptiness into a relationship that won’t test him, a woman who won’t hold mirrors up to his self-deceptions. I know him, even from this distance. He believes life should be easy. I believe life should be fulfilling, and fulfillment won’t come through easy living. While with him, I questioned my gifts of friendship, doubted my expectations of all relationships, and surrendered my romantic dreams. I imagine him now moving day to day. I know his patterns. Boundless blessings won’t content him, for happiness eludes him in his efforts to avoid all fear.

I think of that poor girl. She is drawn to his vulnerability. She wants to prove his gifts to him. Accompanying him into his dark hiding places, she hopes to be a beacon for him. She can’t understand why he resists her, why he won’t venture into the brighter places for her. She wonders if his resistance is truly just self-doubt, or might it indicate a lack of devotion? She sees all of his wonderful qualities ... his gentleness, his humor, his sense of integrity. She perceives his potential. It’s so near to touch. All he needs is a little courage, so she errs in his favor, hoping to boost his self-esteem. She justifies unreasonable sacrifices for the sake of helping him. She wants to smooth his course, to make his fears less threatening so they will be easy to conquer. In time, she’ll let him talk her down from the image of a man who can fulfill her deepest needs. She’ll question whether she must be too demanding. She’ll put her expectations under the knife in order to make herself fit him better. She’ll spend years trying to help him, trying to understand herself with him. Then, when depleted by the effort of loving him, she’ll leave. He’ll be devastated and confused. He’ll claim she was cruel with him at the end because she’ll be frank in her exasperation. In a short time, someone new will amaze her, for she had forgotten how it felt to be appreciated. He’ll find an untapped ear to bend. In drunken self-pity, he’ll cry, “You’d never believe what I’ve been through. You’d never believe what they’ve said to me.” He’ll tell her about J, who said she never felt an overwhelming passion for him. He’ll tell her about me, who poured a drink down his shirt and told him to f*** off instead of being happy for him … of how I was supposed to be a friend. And he’ll tell her about the recent betrayer and whatever insult she paid him. She’ll listen sympathetically. She’ll be drawn to his vulnerability, but in the back of her mind she’ll wonder, could all of his ex-girlfriends have been so bad? Is there any person with a past who can honestly claim being wronged in every case? But she’ll err in his favor, because he has so many great qualities . . .

I see the bottom of my cup. It went so quickly, I hardly noticed. That isn’t how a cup of coffee should be enjoyed. There is just enough left for one more. This time I will take more care. This time I won’t let anything interfere with my simple pleasure, and when it is gone, I will look forward to the next. There is so much to appreciate. I am overwhelmingly thankful.

Resolution: An End to Begging for Crumbs

The most amazing fact about resolution is that it isn’t an act of reaching common ground with another person, but finding resolve within yourself.

The Christmas season came and went. It was particularly trying for me. Little had I realized its concealed importance in my relationship with the SoHB. I never believed it to have any special meaning for us. Other than a cursory exchange of gifts and spending New Year’s Eve at the same parties, we observed no holiday traditions together. Even when we dated, it wasn’t an especially romantic season. But this year, as my ex-co-worker friends began their two-week holiday, I was flooded with nostalgia for Christmases past. It was at this time that most of our circle left town to be with family or used the holiday for road trips. Being natives of this city, the SoHB and I were always at loose ends. We relied upon each other for company more than ever. During the holidays, we were nearly all we had.

The feeling of loss began with wondering if he missed me at all … if he was experiencing the same sad nostalgia. I wondered if he wistfully remembered how we used to meet at Drayton Place or Paddy’s for drinks, eat at favorite restaurants which were distant from work, and talk on the phone constantly. I wondered if he wished those days hadn’t ended as I do. Something told me he must. In his last e-mail, he said that he guessed we wouldn’t be attending the same New Year’s Eve party this year. But if he felt a twinge of sadness, I know it was easily resolved with a call to her. For him, being without me didn’t really mean being without. For me, there was nothing new to replace old memories.

On the brighter side, having been away from work for months, I didn’t feel the loneliness that normally accompanied the days apart from friends. If there were any gaps, my family filled them superbly. I also had a purpose once Christmas passed ... preparing for the New Year’s Eve party. But, pain struck at unusual moments. While browsing through a book store for Christmas gifts, I was stricken with an unbidden fear of running into them together. Once acknowledged, the fear would rear again on subsequent shopping trips. You never know who you’ll encounter during the bustle of the season. I had to talk myself down every time. During a family Christmas party, I felt an intense urge to flee because displaying cheerfulness all day had become an overwhelming burden. Then, while listening to a newly recorded song by my nephew on Christmas Day, I darted out of the room and hid to avoid crying in front of everyone. I broke down at the line that said, “No excuse for me to be here. No excuse for me to be here still.” One small grace was that I had forgotten my cell phone. It remained home while I stayed with my parents a few days. It couldn’t torture me with the silent mockery of an absent holiday phone call. I felt empowered knowing that, while he wouldn’t attempt to call, I wasn’t available to him if he did.

I felt surprisingly fine after Christmas Day. A resigned sadness remained, but it wasn’t nearly so haunting. There was work to be done: a house to be cleaned (or made to look clean), food to be prepared, and decorations to finish. I didn’t have time for wallowing. Over the last month I felt rather self-satisfied that I planned the New Year’s Eve party with no ulterior motives. There was no particular man for whose attention I aspired. While longing for a midnight kiss, only The Flirt might oblige me, and his attendance was doubtful. It seemed I conquered my weakness for planning parties with unreasonable expectations, but I realized the day before the party that I wasn’t quite free. My motivation had merely shifted enough to escape detection. What I wanted this time was to throw a party which would be talked about for days. I wanted it to be gossiped around the water cooler. I wanted the SoHB to hear how great it was and feel the regret of missing out. I had even planned the theme with him in mind … an indicator of my new attitude. “Kiss Off 2004,” read the invitations. Even after making that discovery, I felt self-satisfied. So, I did have an ulterior motive after all. At least this one was well within reach. They still talk about my last party, and that was over a year ago!

My sister helped with last minute preparations. Rachel* came over early to help, as well. We spent every minute in action, even past 8 o’clock - show time. Eight-thirty passed, and still no one. The minutes ticked past 9 o’clock without an extra soul arriving. Despite trying to remain positive, I couldn’t hide the disappointment. Miranda* finally entered at a quarter past. Other guests began arriving, but none of the friends I considered so dependable. Out of all my guests present at midnight, only three were from my old company. The majority were family and a few friends of my nephew. The complete guest count was nine. (One other work-friend stopped by as the party waned, bumping the night’s total to ten.)

Rachel and I were in such disbelief at the turn-out, she started calling around to find out where everyone was. Big Red* claimed to have drunk too much during a football game, and he was too depressed with its results to party. His roommate’s excuse was a bad back. My guitar friend, who intended to come, couldn’t be reached. The Flirt had been uncertain about leaving his Illinois family in time for the party, but was found visiting a “friend” in Kentucky. Our last phone call, made to Ditsy*, revealed that The Flirt had just met his “friend” at the recent company conference. Ditsy said she might come by, but she first had to call Big Red to see what he was doing. In other words, none of them came, all offering lame excuses. While everyone else reveled outside, I retreated to my bedroom to indulge in a couple of tears.

At midnight, everyone donned silly hats, twirled their noise-makers, and lit sparklers. The atmosphere picked up and my mood instantly lifted, never faltering again. The party was a success despite the low turn-out. I’m humbled that its salvation came mainly from my nephew and his friends, who had never been to my house. I hope they enjoyed it enough to return. But my perspective about my friends has shifted. I was always the organizer; planning our events, notifying everyone about them. Most often there was satisfactory participation. Sometimes there wasn’t, and sometimes there was too much. I enjoyed my role of “social butterfly.” Perhaps, since it was opposite from the “loner” role I lived in school, it made me feel secure. It made me feel popular. But, after leaving my company, after going through all the trauma with the SoHB, and after being let down on several occasions (of which the party was a culmination), I see how much unreturned effort I’ve made in maintaining friendships. I feel taken for granted … unappreciated … disrespected. Everything has been lopsided, so I’m pulling back. I’m abdicating a bulk of the responsibility to them. If I allow myself to do all the work, I’ll wear myself out. It’s not that I should do nothing, but that I shouldn’t be so eager for their company that I allow disrespect. The same mistake I made with the SoHB has been made with all my friends. This was a year of revelation, a year for renewal, and a chance for change. I finally feel confident that I have made commendable effort at being a good friend … that there is a point when I must step back, let go and see what happens. I am resolved that the outcome, whatever it may be, will be right for me.

Happy New Year, everyone.

* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.

Into the Realm of Madness

There are moments when we forget ourselves … moments when good intentions do not feel so noble, and cannot protect us in our frailty … when we are defined by our tragedies more than our strength. What is our humanity? Is it prevailing over our weakness, or is it the weakness itself?

I believed myself to be over the SoHB following the debacle at the concert. Bringing his girlfriend that night exposed an insensitivity I couldn’t overlook. I was certain I never wanted to speak to him again. The following Monday, I changed my IM handle to “F*** you, SoHB.” He never signed on. I suspected that he blocked me, but with his penchant for coming in to work around noon after a drinking binge, I couldn’t be sure. That afternoon, Rachel* confirmed for me when he signed on, but I couldn’t see him. I’d intended to block him once I knew he’d seen my insult. Now knowing he’d seen it, or at least been told by one of our mutual friends, I blocked him as well. That was supposed to be the end.

When I was working, I was a bit spoiled by having my friends around me every day. I could comfortably spend a weekend alone at home. I didn’t realize how desolate it could feel. On the following Friday, I invited several friends over at the last minute for drinks on my deck. I knew there was slim chance of anyone coming, even The Flirt, who had given me a “maybe.” It seemed most of my friends were out of town. I didn’t even prepare for company. I fell asleep on the couch around midnight. My ringing phone woke me at 2AM. The Flirt was drunk after late night pool playing with his best friend. He was on his way home, but wanted to come over now. I laughed at his attempt at a booty call.

The next evening, the comfortable solitude transformed into abject loneliness. I needed the company of a friend, even if it was only to sit and silently watch television. I called The Flirt, my only available friend, but reached his voice mail. I returned to my blog writing, television watching, and deepening melancholy. Hours passed. Out of desperation, I called The Flirt once more. It was no use. I would have to endure my own company all evening. It was then that I met the memory of “once upon a time.” Once upon a time, if I ever felt the slightest bit lonely, there was a friend on whom I could always call. If I ever needed company, whether going out for a drink or just a talk on the phone, I could always rely on the SoHB. I had been missing him for months, but never like I did right then. At that moment I simply missed my best friend, and I grieved.

To deal with the grief, I composed an e-mail. In it, I expressed my deep confusion at my own contradictory feelings. I apologized for jerking him around with my ever-changing emotions. I apologized for the last weekend, when I poured my drink on him. I told him that I didn’t think we should communicate for a while, but stretched forth an olive branch by saying I believed there had been more to us than what was going on recently. I told him how I missed him.

When I sat back and read my message, I realized why I needed to write it. Until I acted hostile toward him, I held all the power. I had expressed my hurt, and I had argued with him, but now his last memory of me was absolutely ugly. Before that incident, I had the liberty of calling him, even if he couldn’t comfortably do the same. Now, I wasn’t the only one bearing grievance. He had something to hold against me, as well. I didn’t like what I had accomplished. I wanted him to remember me and miss me. I wanted him to long for my company. I originally had no intention of sending the e-mail, but decided that I would. Instead of the harsh image I last left with him, I would send it and leave him a softer one.

He replied the next day. My e-mail had surprised him. He said he found it hard to imagine us being friends at this point, even at the most superficial level. He said he didn’t intend that as a spiteful statement. It was simply clear that I disliked him, and while he would prefer it wasn’t the case, he wouldn’t defend or justify himself anymore. He was confused by my contacting him to propose no communication for a while, but thought I was probably right. He assured me that he wouldn’t attend any social events where I was present. He was sorry things turned out so badly. He hoped the ill will could be put to rest at some point, and wished me the best. I didn’t respond to his e-mail . That was supposed to be the end.

Rachel and I decided to see the new Bridget Jones’ movie (a character to which I closely relate) on Friday. Having been inspired by Bridget, we visited our favorite martini bar after the movie. Their specialty drinks are an outrageous indulgence … as costly as a common dinner, but so hard to resist. We each had three and called it a night. I felt fine when I arrived home … didn’t really want the evening to end. The devilish idea popped into my head of calling the SoHB for a little light-hearted conversation, just like I’d longed to do the last weekend. I speculated that through the tunnel-vision induced by alcohol I might be able block out the hurt and anger. I doubted that three martinis would do the job. I went to my liquor cabinet and made myself two Buttery Nipple shots for courage.

I knew he wouldn’t be home on a Friday night. It was always his happy-hour night with friends. I wasn’t worried that he might be with her, because he told me once that she worked late on weekends (so there was never any need for us to meet). I didn’t have his cell phone number anymore, but I remembered his home number. As expected, his answering machine picked up. Having nothing particular to say, I didn’t leave a message. Then I reconsidered. Wanting him to know that I called … wanting him to hear my lovely, carefree voice, I called again. It surprised me when he answered.

“Hey!” I said. “I didn’t expect you to be home. I was going to leave a message.”

“No. I’m home.” I looked at the clock. Very odd for him to be home at midnight on a Friday, but not unheard of.

“What’s up?” Although a bit nervous, I actually felt as light-hearted as I sounded.

“Oh, nothing. Just had some dinner.” His voice sounded stilted … unnatural.

“Oh,” I said, wondering if he’d been out with her. There was a pause. He offered no more detail. “Well, I was surprised you answered. I’m drunk,” I giggled, offering that as explanation of the call and my gregarious manner.

“OH,” he said, knowingly. There was another pregnant pause.

“Well, what are you doing?” I said, hoping to get the conversation rolling. I believed his odd tone was due to suspicion. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop … waiting to see what new abuse I would heap on him.

“Nothing,” he replied. Pause.

“Nothing you want to talk about.”

“Right.” Another pregnant pause. He wasn’t cooperating.

“Well, I really don’t know what to say now. Like I said, I expected to just leave a message,” I said, fishing for him to contribute.

“Well, you can leave a message.”

“I can leave a message … !??” I said incredulously.

“Yeah. You can give me the message.” Here was the most pregnant pause of all. I didn’t understand. Why would I want to leave a message when the real deal was on the phone? Several long seconds passed. “Look, I need to go,” he said. The truth dawned. She was with him. He couldn’t talk to me because she was there.

“Oh, you need to go…,” I repeated.

“Yeah. I really need to go.”

“Well, … then … you just go! You just GO!!” I spat, and hung up the phone. It was the best my intoxicated brain could come up with at the moment. I was incredibly angry. So much for my good intentions.

I stomped around the house as I prepared for bed, muttering about what an ass he was. I understood now what the “nothing” he didn’t want to talk about was. The more time that passed, the angrier I felt. I was infuriated … in a blazing, white-hot rage. I wanted to tell him off. I wanted to blister his ears with all of the horrible things I thought of him. I wanted him to pay.

I resisted the desire to call him. I wouldn’t reduce myself to being the belligerent harpy shrieking from his answering machine. I was so angry, I could barely string two sentences together. Besides, he probably turned off the machine to avoid embarrassment in front of his girlfriend. I tried to concentrate on brushing my teeth, but it wouldn’t hold. My anger wouldn’t subside. I had to do something.

I would write him an e-mail. That was passive-aggressive enough. I finished up the bedtime ritual before banging out a hateful message saying that I hoped he had a very nice f*** with his girlfriend. Hoping to hit a nerve, I also said that if he ever wondered what it might have been like with me, he should ask The Flirt.

I went to bed and laid there fuming. There would be no immediate rest for me that night. After several minutes, I decided that I had not said enough. I went to the computer again and wrote an e-mail dripping with resentment. I started off explaining the benign purpose of my phone call. I said it was a good thing he picked up the phone so she didn’t have to hear my voice. I went on to question whether she was aware he’d been in my bed at some point after they started dating, since he’d told me once that they were honest with each other. Then I resorted to sarcasm, noting my stupidity in not realizing he’d intended that last night as a final farewell (as he once asserted). I asked how I could have been so silly as to believe in the feelings he expressed for me. I asked how I might think his lying with me and holding me close all day was significant, despite his never saying anything to diminish the romance of it. Finally, I attached a document I’d written a few days earlier as an exercise in letting go. In the e-mail I stated that I was obviously having a hard time living up to its edicts, but it was, nonetheless, my resolution. It wasn‘t written for him to see, but I was so impressed with myself for it, I decided to send it while in the heat of the moment. In it I detailed the minimum of decency I deserved but had not received from him. If he valued me, he would have honored his feelings for me. If he valued me, he wouldn’t have been careless with my feelings knowing he had no intention of returning them. If he valued me, he would have sacrificed his pride to my heartache with an apology. If he valued me, he would have gladly pursued my friendship and disproved my feelings of worthlessness. I stated that I was giving up the chase after something that apparently wasn’t there. I blamed alcohol in large part for his foolishness, stating that as long as it remains his most trusted companion, there will not be room for any woman to fill that role. I told him that I still prayed for him, because I loved him in spite of everything. I simply couldn’t love him up close as I had wanted. And I said goodbye.

I wrote both e-mails knowing I would regret them in the morning. I wanted to thwart my sensible self while the rage was high and alcohol still coursed through my blood. As predicted, I regretted my rashness even before falling asleep.

I half expected him to respond. That is why one spews such vicious words … to elicit a response, but I also knew he would very likely ignore my messages. I had given up all my power. I began the journey through heartache as the wronged one. My rage now seduced me into handing him the high road that should have been mine. In the morning, I futilely searched for a means of retrieving the messages. I helplessly waited for an embittered response from him, which never came. The next day, I decided my only recourse was to apologize. I didn’t want to be like him. I didn’t want to make excuses rather than hold myself accountable for the hurtful things I’ve said. I wrote a new message apologizing for the previous two e-mails. I explained that my drunk self wanted to “strike back” before my sober self could talk me out of it, and I hoped he (of all people) could understand the drunk vs. sober inconsistency. I stated that I’d rather not talk to him anymore, citing how I end up paying for my attempts at friendliness. As expected, he never replied to my apology, either. I wonder if he even received it. By then, he may have blocked my e-mail address.

I found it difficult to function over the next three days. I knew their relationship to be intimate, but being confronted with it firsthand, even over the phone, was harsh. The effect on me couldn’t have been worse if I’d actually walked in on them. I know I carried a fantasy that he still longed for me, despite his choices. It felt better imagining that he had some pangs of guilt when he lay with her. The unsavory truth was that he chose to be with her, not because of our mixed signals and misunderstandings, but because it was what he wanted. And the harshest truth of all was that with every new day, with every new opportunity I presented him, he still chose her. I am hardly on his mind, much less the source of any regret. The madness served me in the end, though. No matter how foolish I looked, it brought me kicking and screaming into reality. It exposed his coldness to me. It exposed my weakness for him. My resolution is now being honored, although the pain remains. I have no desire to see or talk to him. He is out of my life.

Background: The Source of HeartBreak (SoHB) Part 3

New Year’s Eve approached, and I resolved to give a small party. Inspired by an intimate gathering Jeri* had the previous year, I invited only a few close friends. Every year New Year’s Eve is one of my most anticipated holidays. In the recesses of my mind I fantasized about a midnight kiss with the SoHB. I also have a weakness of hoping for romantic connections during my parties, whether it’s the old crush at my birthday party, The Flirt at Halloween, or, in this case, the SoHB. I’m usually disappointed.

The SoHB called a few hours before the party. I was happy to hear his voice. He gave me an account of his evening plans, telling me that he had another party obligation, so he wouldn’t be at mine the whole night. Then he revealed that he invited someone … a date. My heart dropped. I told him it was fine. I asked a little about her, as any good friend would. When our conversation ended I allowed myself to acknowledge the disappointment. I realized that our imagined kiss had been a primary focus in my preparations. With it made impossible, I lost all desire to continue, but couldn’t cancel.

The party was lively, but my spirit wasn’t in it. I greeted my guests as cheerily as possible. When midnight approached, I poured the champagne. Looking at my guests, all couples, I raised my glass to make an impressive toast. I made a brave face for everyone around me, watching as they kissed their dates or spouses. Inside, I felt like crying.

The SoHB called a couple of times before showing up with a college girl… cute, petite… more that 10 years his junior. He knew her through theater connections. As a good hostess, I welcomed her with grace and made certain she enjoyed herself. Besides being terminally nice, I felt a perverted desire to please him. The scenario seemed bizarre… almost like the other woman playing hostess to the wife. I liked the girl. It wasn’t her fault she ruined my party.

I didn’t reveal my feelings immediately. I wasn’t secure in them myself. I had no right to expect anything of him. It was I who made it clear that we were simply friends. It was I who spent most of our friendship keeping him at a distance. Besides, I couldn’t make any bold declarations of undying love. My feelings were only now burgeoning. After enduring several casual references to her during the following week, I decided my feelings weren’t just shallow jealousy. I let him know how disappointed I was when he brought a date to my party. I told him about wanting to get away from him whenever he talked about her. He was suspicious, and understandably so. The situation resembled the one with Jeri’s friend. I explained that my questions regarding us started weeks earlier, and my feelings had begun developing before New Year’s Eve. I couldn’t convince him. He finally attempted to placate me by pointing out she would be returning to college soon. Who knew what would happen then?

The new girl spurned him once she returned to college. I was relieved, believing that we might now have a chance to build on those feelings. I knew that time would prove my sincerity, but it wasn’t long before he disappointed me again. The Flirt and his roommate threw a small football/poker party. I wasn’t interested, but the SoHB said my attendance was the only reason he would go. Feeling encouraged by this, I went. He hardly arrived before leaving again for another party, promising to return. He was obviously hoping to meet someone new. Even Jeri commented that the SoHB was “on the prowl.” I couldn’t enjoy the party. I had expected to spend more time with him, but was uneasy waiting while he sought other company. I went home. In a 1AM phone call, he complained that I had left him. I made clear my displeasure at having been so unceremoniously spurned.

The next several months were a seesaw of emotions. I felt closer to him in one moment only to feel discarded in the next. He originally told me his next interest was just a friend. She had a boyfriend. Then, on a night out, he openly teased and cajoled her with veiled remarks about a desire to date her. This time I stormed out of the bar in a drunken huff. After these events we would argue. I complained that if he insisted on pursuing other women, I needed to distance myself. I couldn’t sit by and watch. He acted resentful.

In my mind, the drama became a race. If I couldn’t find someone before he did, my heart would break. I tried things I never imagined I would. Never having been much of a dater, I bought books about it. I listed a personal ad on the internet. I picked up a man in a bar. No one I encountered impressed me. My eyes longingly returned to the SoHB

I was comforted when nothing came of his latest interest. My attempts to distance myself from him never lasted more than a week. He didn’t seem to be “on the prowl” as much, but he resisted being linked romantically with me. He argued that our differences in religion and social convictions made us incompatible. He declared me to be the one who initiated our breakup. I tried reasoning that it was the right decision at the time. It didn’t have to mean forever. I countered that our differences were once the arguments I made, but I still managed to develop feelings. I believed myself to be arguing against his doubts. If they could be allayed, we would have a chance. But he also started making comments that were out of character. Throughout our complicated relationship, he always made it clear that he didn’t prioritize sex. He consistently made comments of, “I’m not like The Flirt,” or “I don’t want you to think I’m like those guys.” Suddenly, the earth shifted on its axis, and he started saying things like, “Maybe The Flirt’s attitude is the way to go,” and “I need a mate.” To me, the remarks were a veiled way of saying I was now unsuitable … my celibacy wouldn’t fit in his lifestyle. It disturbed me, but I hoped they were mere thoughts of desperation drawn out of his loneliness. I wanted to believe in the respect I held for him after years of friendship. The character he had asserted and I believed proven … those were his convictions, right? They revealed his true self….

Over the months of late winter and spring, there were moments that stand out in memory…moments of frustration or hope, inspiration and exasperation. I cannot help but note how many involved alcohol. There was the moment we decided to go to a local Irish pub. While driving to the bar, he received a call from the friend I despised. When he told me his friend was joining us, I didn’t run. I stayed and endured the friend’s undesirable presence. When I had succumbed to enough and started to leave, the SoHB followed me and made claims of why I should stay as thought I owed it to him … as though I were a girlfriend. I agreed to stay a little longer. At some point during the night I accused the SoHB of being incapable of truly loving any woman, because alcohol was his mistress. He said I might be right.

One of the most pivotal occasions for me came one night when he stayed at my house after things had fallen through with both ladies of interest. We sat on my couch… or rather, I lay with my head in his lap as he stroked my hair. He told me that he had tried dating these other girls, but it wasn’t the same. They weren’t me. I was moved. Nodding in understanding, I expressed that it had been the same for me. I felt certain it was only a matter of time before he gave up his silly quest. He slept in my bed afterwards, holding me all night. In the morning, we talked over the meaning of these things. He was resolute that we were nothing more than friends. I argued that this was not the behavior of friends. You do not sleep over with a friend with which you have a romantic history and who has expressed feelings for you. There were several occasions in which he slept over with me, always in the same bed, and this wasn’t the last.

It was shortly afterwards that he came, late as usual, to see a band accompanied by the girl from New Year’s Eve. My group of friends had been out for hours and were already enjoying ourselves. His group seated themselves apart from us. I refused to go by their table. I had reached my limit of understanding.

Also in attendance that night was a new friend of mine. We became acquainted through our mutual interest in music. Upon learning that I played a little guitar he invited me to jam with him sometime. I suspected he was interested in me for more than music, but when he didn’t flirt or seem over eager, I put it out of mind. At the evening’s end, there was only a trio of us left, including him. As I started to drive away, I discovered my car had a flat tire. I was able to catch the other two before they left, and my guitar friend helped change the tire. He followed me home to make certain the spare would hold. I appreciated his gentlemanly consideration.

Once home, I thanked him. At some point in the evening I had mentioned having the ingredients for Buttery Nipple shots at home. He surprised me by asking if we could have one. I naively thought nothing of inviting him in. Any suspicion of interest had long been put out of mind. It was as I downed my shot and looked at him that the realization hit. He was going to kiss me! Within a split second, he did.

It turned into a passionate evening. I wanted to stop. Things were too intense, but in my clouded logic I feared saying the wrong thing. I feared hurting his feelings. So, I put off my reservations until I could think of something to say. He carried me to the bedroom. I was hesitant, but men had slept in my bed before, or I had been in theirs. I was always in control. The night continued until the wee hours. I had gone much farther than intended. In the midst of this, I recall looking at him and wishing he were the SoHB. That night as I slept beside him, I dreamed of the SoHB. I dreamed he learned of my indiscretion and became inconsolable with grief. Within my dream I reasoned that he would have to get over it … we weren’t together, but my conscience nagged me. I had let him believe I had strong feelings for him, which I did. I felt I had betrayed him. After this event, it remained in the back of my mind that I had involved myself with this new friend in a way which belonged to the SoHB. In our dating days we never went so far. It seemed to me that if anyone should hold that distinction, it was him.

More weeks passed. I avoided being alone with my guitar friend. I endeavored to be more obvious in my affection for the SoHB. We became closer than ever. I was amazed by my feelings for him. I’d often told him that I wasn’t in love with him. While that still held true, I didn’t understand how. I loved him so deeply it felt as though my heart could burst from it. When I closely examined how I could feel such deep love, but not consider myself in love, I determined the difference was a matter of trust. I trusted the SoHB with my life, my secrets, my self, but I didn’t trust him with my heart. All of my former concerns had fallen away save one. I couldn’t trust him to be responsible with alcohol. He would never give it up. I also knew he was not yet ready stop looking elsewhere for love.

One Friday in July, I invited several friends over for drinks on my new deck. I looked forward to entertaining them, knowing the evening would fit their laid back style. I also looked forward to having the SoHB over. Since we’d grown so much closer, I was certain he would stay later than everyone else, and I hoped we would have an intimate evening. As it happened, he was the last one remaining. I was eager for some meaningful alone time with him. I was certain our attraction had progressed to a point he would want to kiss me and hopefully more. I flirted. I teased. I was disheartened. There was no reaction.

We moved inside to the living room. As I close the window blinds, he said, “You know, Kwirk, I am a sexual man.”

I turned to him and said, “I know. Don’t you think I know that’s what this is all about…why you’ve been resisting me? You’ve said things like this before.”

Exactly how he responded, I can’t recall, but he started pointing out again that I had broken up with him. I countered with the fact that our breakup had happened two years ago. People change. We’d changed. By that point I was laying across the couch, my head in his lap. He gently stroked my hair. He looked at me fondly, and said, “You know, sometimes when I look at you, I think I might love you.” I knew what he meant. Several occasions throughout the preceding week … several sober occasions … I’d caught him looking at me in that old familiar way. It was the reason I knew he would want to kiss me this night … the reason I believed he would show me his desire, even if involuntarily. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to speak the words that I loved him, but it wasn’t secure. I wasn’t secure he would accept it. I wasn’t secure with myself being able to progress from loving him completely to being in love with him. He made other endearing statements. All I could manage was the supportive nod seasoned with the intermittent “I know. Me too.”

Then his tone changed. He said he felt that he was going to hurt me. He feared that he was about to betray me. I sat up and looked hard at him. “Are you seeing someone?” I asked. From the corner of his eye, he looked at me guiltily and nodded. I had been through this before. He’d started seeing someone, but it probably won’t work out, just like the others. Here he was saying intimate things to me. What was the chance that it would work out? I detachedly asked a little about her. He asked in turn if I was seeing someone. Not wanting to be left out, I mentioned that there was someone interested in me, but I wasn’t sure if I felt the same. After a few minutes, I determined we should go to bed. We could continue talking there. I took his hand, but he resisted. “Friends don’t do that,” he said, echoing my words from weeks before. I gave up and went to bed feeling certain he would shortly follow. Around 4AM I awoke alone. I rose to search for him, and found him asleep on the couch pretty much as I had left him. This time when I took his hand and coaxed him, he followed. We fell asleep again in each other’s arms.

After sunrise, we were still touching. When I rose to let out the dog or go to the restroom, he resisted, holding me close to him until I promised to return. Whenever I returned to bed, he would take me and hold me close again. I told him that I missed him. He said he missed me, too. I think there was no doubt as to what either of us meant. I wanted to talk about us, but I didn’t want to spoil the moment. I wanted to kiss him, but I wanted it to come out of his desire for me. We never spoke more than a few words before he drifted back into sleep. I couldn’t sleep. Before making a quick trip to the bank, I laid down on the edge of the bed facing him. We exchanged words in which I told him where I was going, and that I would return. I decided I wanted to give him more than the nods and “I know’s” of the previous night. I had been teetering at the edge of these words for a couple of weeks. Maybe last night’s revelation was the right opening. I stroked the side of his face and said, “I love you, SoHB.” His eyes were closed, but I knew he heard. I felt foolish. I realized he didn’t remember his words and didn’t understand mine were a response to them.

He didn’t leave until 3 or 4 o’clock in the afternoon. He didn’t kiss me goodbye, but it was the longest he had ever stayed. It was the most he had ever revealed. I was delighted, and yet…

As I started cleaning up from the night’s party, I felt a nagging discomfort. With him gone, I could look at the event as a whole… all he said, all he did. I stopped to analyze what could be bothering me. I drew the puzzle pieces together to start forming a picture. I realized him saying that he was going to hurt and betray me pointed to some future betrayal, but he was already seeing someone. There must be another barrier to cross. He must anticipate becoming intimate with this person. It was something I had anticipated, only not so immediately. In the years since we dated, I don’t believe he had sex, based on his word that he didn’t sleep with anyone he wasn’t involved with. So far, he hadn’t dated anyone long enough to become “involved” with them. Knowing my values, I believed him aware that sex with someone else while I was available to him, and when he had expressed such deep feeling for me, would not be acceptable. While I couldn’t expect his fidelity as a boyfriend, I did expect him to honor the feelings he expressed to me … and honor the hope that we were becoming right for one another. Surely he must know that carrying his new relationship to that level would close the casket on any hope of our having one. He’d better be certain that he didn’t want me.

I was naturally uneasy about this revelation, but it went deeper than the feared loss of potential romance. At the core of my sadness was revealed a bitter truth. If he chose that path, I could also no longer be his friend. He had led me to believe in his feelings for me. He had depended on me much as one would a girlfriend. If he slept with this person, he couldn’t expect me to be available as usual. I knew that he would. The bond we shared was significant, and he would want to continue relying on it. I wasn’t content to be the standby girlfriend. I wasn’t content with the role of being his emotional support system while he screwed someone else. No. If that was what he wanted, he would lose me entirely.

The following week I was sent to Orlando for nearly two weeks. The SoHB and I usually talked on the phone during my long trips. He would call to check on me and offer a little company. I was dismayed that he didn’t call. We e-mailed back and forth a little, but his messages lacked their usual energy and playfulness. I flew to Pensacola, where my sister lives, over the weekend. Our nephew’s band was competing in radio contest at a local bar. I had to pull all kinds of strings to manage getting there, but I did it. I expected the SoHB to come. He knew it not only meant a great deal for me to support my nephew, but it was also a hard thing for me to endure. Watching my nephew perform … seeing him pursue his dreams while I had settled for a 9 to 5 desk job … was bittersweet. By the time the evening climaxed (my nephew’s band won the contest), my ol’ standby, rum and coke, had worked its magic. My mood dropped from elation to self-pity in a heartbeat. I resented the SoHB for not being there, and decided to call him up and tell him. I left a slurred, unflattering message on voice mail.

On Monday, I was back in Orlando. In an IM conversation with the SoHB, I complained once more about his lack of consideration. He claimed I expected too much of him. I again sensed a distance, and something he said made me suspect he had done the deed. I cried a little, but it was only a suspicion, after all. I was able to put it out of mind.

Home again the next weekend, three of us met for drinks Friday night. We started at a pizza place. The three of us laughed and joked. The SoHB wanted us to visit one of his favorite haunts in its new location, and we obliged. As we sat around the bar table, I could determine the SoHB’s inebriation level by the content of his conversation. As had become his habit of late, he began talking about sex, asking personal questions … often offering me apology for the risqué topic, as though the frankness of his questions was uncharacteristic. I shrugged and let him carry on. None of it bothered me, even when I disagreed. Eventually, our friend took his leave, and the two of us were finally alone.

I always took delight our time alone together. This was no exception. I moved to sit nearer. It wasn’t long before his conversation took an odd turn. Continuing the topic of sex, he asked if I remembered an occasion when we dated … a time when we made out, and he “went for the gold,” so to speak (His words). He remembered that I moved his hand gently, but decisively, away. He apologized for that occasion … for being too forward. I smiled and nodded that I remembered. I wanted to laugh at his apology. If he’d only tried a little more of that, I may not have broken up with him. He continued rambling the same inconsequential phrases about how I had broken up with him, asking “What was I supposed to do?” He then gravely confessed that he was seeing someone, and I casually replied, “I know.”

He was astonished. “You know? How do you know?”

I reminded him that he told me two weeks earlier. He didn’t remember.

His speech was peppered with nervous laughter. “What? You knew? Why have I been torturing myself these last two weeks? You don’t know what I’ve been through. I’ve been so worried. I feel like I’ve betrayed you. But what was I supposed to do, Kwirk. You broke up with me.” His words barely registered. “I met her in a bar. You know, you go out. You meet someone, and you click. What was I supposed to do? You broke up with me.” I was still nodding, maybe not smiling. I was accustomed to the role of longsuffering, unrequited lover. He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “You know, I dated a couple of girls. That was just foolishness. But this isn’t foolish. This girl is older. This is serious.” His voice had turned grave. He expected me to reply, but I had none. I was still trying to process all he said. Could things have grown so different while I was gone? A question slowly formed. Had he slept with her? Was that the difference? I couldn’t speak the terrible thought. I couldn’t presume the right to ask it. It was too personal, and I feared the answer.

“I feel as though I’ve betrayed you,” he said again. “But what was I supposed to do?” He reached out to touch my shoulder. I pulled away. “Look at you. You can’t even stand for me to touch you.”

Around this time, he excused himself to the restroom. I had a moment of silence to weigh his words and decide what they meant. The words circled in my mind … words like “betrayed” and “serious.”

He returned to the table. He stared at me a moment. “Say something, for God’s sake. Give me something,” he pleaded. My mind, my heart was screaming my question, but I couldn’t utter it. “I feel so guilty. But, why? Why, Kwirk? You broke up with me.” My eyes bored into him. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to lay my hand on his cheek. My heart was bursting with a desire to love him, and cracking from fear that this was the end. If I said the words, he would confirm them, and I would be lost. I couldn’t say them. There was no point in my sticking around, not if all I could give was silence.

“I think I should leave,” I said, gathering my purse.

“Kwirk,” he called after me, but I needed to escape. I just said goodbye and headed for the door. I wanted him to follow me. I wanted him to chase me down in the parking lot and make me talk to him. I knew he wouldn’t.

I spent Saturday in a pervasive melancholy. I didn’t cry. There was no excuse. He wasn’t mine to cry over. Sunday evening I put the words together. The last night he stayed with me, he said he feared that he was going to betray me. On Friday night, he used the past tense. He felt as though he had betrayed me. It was all the confirmation I needed. He had slept with her. Then the tears came. I had to go out of town again. Monday morning I stood in front of a new class and hoped I wouldn’t lose my breakfast. He instant messaged me that afternoon, but I didn’t respond. I knew we needed to talk, but it shouldn’t happen through such a superficial medium. Wednesday was my birthday. I can’t remember a more miserable one. I received an e-mail from him wishing me a happy birthday. Tagged onto the end was a statement that he didn’t believe he did anything to deserve my not speaking to him. I deleted the e-mail. If I was important to him, he would call. He never called.

It was two weeks before I spoke to him. I initiated it, but only regarding work. It was a month before I saw him at Beerfest. I didn’t know if he was still dating that girl. I thought I didn’t care. I was apprehensive about seeing him again, but I looked forward to it, also. I had a vision of the SoHB approaching me for a personal conversation once drink boosted his courage. I dressed to kill, and I wore my most carefree spirit. Seeing him again was awkward, but it didn’t inhibit my evening. We had a large group which splintered frequently. When we did all end up in the same bar together, it looked like the moment had arrived when he would approach me, but he didn’t.

The group was fractured when Beerfest came to its official end. Of course, all the patrons stick around to enjoy the nightlife. My friends and I returned to the bar where we had last seen the other group members. We waited about an hour before leaving to look elsewhere. Walking down the street, one of my friends called The Flirt. He and the SoHB were sitting in a bar in another part of town. They had left us. The SoHB was apparently content to leave without talking to me. I was crushed. When I arrived home that night, I called him on his cell phone. I think I bitterly told him that I hoped he was having a nice time, and hung up. My phone immediately rang. I knew it was him calling to find out what was wrong. It was my guitar friend instead, whom I’d also run into at Beerfest. He asked me out on a date for the following evening. So, things ended well for me, after all.

I later learned from Rachel* that she had asked the SoHB where his girlfriend was that night. He told her she had to work. I couldn’t decide which bothered me more; the fact he was still seeing her at all, or that he didn’t flinch at the word “girlfriend.” We had dated for eight months, and he never once referred to me as a girlfriend, or since then as an ex-. I also learned that she had met him at the bar after they left us that night. She had been with him when I called. I was dismayed.

Nearly a week later, we had our first argument. In reaction to Beerfest events, I deleted his name from my IM contacts and all his numbers from my cell phone. We didn’t speak for several days. I thought he would message me, but he didn’t. By Thursday, it was driving me crazy. I e-mailed him asking for his IM contact info, thereby revealing that I deleted it. I then messaged him to ask something work-related, but we eventually spiraled into an argument. I told him that I had expected him to speak to me at Beerfest. He accused me of being stand-offish. I expressed my anger over his not ever approaching me to talk about things. He whined about my walking out on him a month earlier. He thought I hated him. He thought a part of him believed he deserved it, but he didn’t believe it anymore. I explained why I walked out on him and why I hadn’t spoken to him. I explained how I’d interpreted his words. He expressed amazement. They hadn’t slept together then, he said. He didn’t know how I could have come to that conclusion. I explained the misleading details in his conversation. He didn’t know why he used the word “betrayed.” He didn’t betray me. I explained that I didn’t see things as though he had cheated on me. I knew I had no claim on him, but his actions led me to believe he had feelings for me … significant, deep feelings. I told him what he said to me on the last night he slept over … that he sometimes thought he might love me. He didn’t remember, of course. He thought I must have misunderstood the context in which he meant it. He said it didn’t mean he actually felt that way, since he said it while drunk. He danced around my points of contention with his justifications. The only thing he didn’t contest was something he said a couple of weeks earlier. He had asked if we could get together to talk things over sometime. I agreed, but he never pursued it any further. He conceded that he had not followed through. Before ending the conversation, I wanted to get something straight before I carried on in false anger. I had been mistaken in how I interpreted what he said that infamous night at the bar. I had grieved without real reason for a month. I didn’t want to continue in mistaken grief. I wanted him to tell me that he had slept with her. All he would say was that he wasn’t comfortable discussing that with me. After much insistence, he finally said, “You know the answer to that, Kwirk.” I told him that I did know, but I wanted to hear it from him. That was all the confirmation I would get from him, but it was all I really needed.

That weekend, he called me at 5AM after a drunken all-nighter, saying he was afraid things would become irreparable if we didn’t speak. We covered the same topics. I tried to explain why I was so hurt. I tried to explain how his sleeping with her affected my perception of him and of us, in context of my religious beliefs. He took it as a judgment … that I expected him to live by my standards. I told him that I only expected him to honor the feelings he expressed to me. I went into the events that I found misleading. I went into the feelings I had expected him to be aware of, pointing out the things I did and said. He fell back on the argument that nothing was ever directly expressed. He told me that if I had spoken up, had made my feelings known, maybe it all would have turned out differently. Who knew what might have happened? I accused him of using me as a stand-in girlfriend, and now wanting me to remain available while his romance was still budding. He countered that if that were true, then I had used him as a stand-in as well. He claimed he had given up all hope in a future for us. He wanted us to remain friends. The sound of that was like nails on a chalkboard. He said that, as a friend, I should be happy for him. The conversation ended with nothing truly resolved, but I felt better for his making an effort. I had mixed feelings about the conversation itself. He took no accountability for anything. The closest he came was after he denied doing anything to mislead me. I pointed out that it is possible to do and say misleading things even when it isn’t intended. He conceded to my point, but did not accept any responsibility for anything specifically. And yet, he never denied having feelings for me. In fact, it seemed he admitted to more possibilities than he should have, for he implied that he might be with me if I’d been more forward. I didn’t buy the argument that there was anything I could have done significantly differently, but I knew he had strong feelings for me. I couldn’t be convinced otherwise.

Over the weeks and months since then, we tried being friendly. We even socialized within a group on a few occasions, but on most occasions I couldn’t look at him too frequently. I resented it when he tried being light-hearted with me, especially if it was flirtatious. The truth was nothing had been resolved. I needed to see a little regret. If he couldn’t regret choosing her over me, he should regret being irresponsible with my feelings, but he remained loyal to his denials and justifications. If he couldn’t show me real remorse, I needed a display of my value to him, at least. I needed him to pursue me in friendship if he couldn’t pursue me for romance. It seemed his best offer was to ignore the issues which divided us in hopes they would just go away. He occasionally initiated IM conversations, but I could only go so long before letting my bitterness seep through. He maintained his stance that he did no wrong. He even took on the persona of the victim, claiming he wasn’t happy with how I treated him. Our fragile relationship slowly disintegrated to the point where I started this blog. We weren’t a couple, and yet my pain has all the marks of a terrible breakup. Each morning I awaken again to the unimaginable truth that with every new day he still chooses her.

* = Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.

My apologies for the delay of this post. While telling this story has been a cathartic experience overall, this part was particularly painful. That and other recent events have made dedication to its telling especially difficult.

Background: The Source of HeartBreak (SoHB) Part 2

The SoHB had a hard time with the breakup. It confounded me. He didn’t seem to value me that greatly when we were together. In all of our eight months as a couple, he took me out on only two dates! Why was he upset now? Fortunately, work sent me to Birmingham for a month, so we had some much needed space. When I returned, I threw myself a 30th birthday party. It was a raging success with one exception. I had hoped that my former crush would attend, and my fantasy of reconciling with him put the SoHB completely out of mind. The crush didn’t show, of course, so I holed up in my room for a spell, crying on The Flirt’s shoulder. Ah, well. Shortly, I was back in the swing of the party. Later, the SoHB found me nearly passed out on the couch with The Flirt. We weren’t cuddling, or even touching, but I recall hearing him swear softly at the sight of us. I feigned sleep. I later announced to the remaining party-goers that I was going to bed. They were welcome to continue as long as they liked … just lock my doors when the last one left. The SoHB is always last to leave a party. He came to my room and sat on my bed. I can’t remember much of our conversation, but there was some discussion of giving it another try.

Two weeks later, it was his birthday. Predictably, his ideal revelry was attending a local event called Beerfest. Also in typical SoHB fashion, he ran about 2 hours late for his own birthday gathering. As I watched him walk toward us, having grown frustrated in waiting for him, I felt absolutely certain that I did NOT want to try again. Having a heart-to-heart in the middle of a crowd would be inappropriate, so I resolved to keep my distance throughout the evening. At one point, after we had enjoyed all the offerings of Beerfest, I found myself cornered in a bar with him and another friend for a length beyond endurance. I had to escape…quickly! Making the excuse of finding the others, I exited to find Rachel* and The Flirt involved in lively conversation. This better fit my mood. I stopped to enjoy their repartee. Within minutes the SoHB burst out of the bar in a huff, mumbling incoherently. He was upset that I had left his company to enjoy The Flirt’s, innocuous as it was. I tried to calm him …reason with him, but I wasn’t going to chase him all over town. He went off on his own, and I didn’t see any more of him that night. I heard from Rachel that when she later chanced upon him, he was livid, alleging there was something going on between The Flirt and me. He was upset with both of us for several weeks. I tried telling the sober SoHB that he had jumped to conclusions, but he was more content playing the role of wronged friend and ex-boyfriend. I decided to give him space. The Flirt and I cooled our flirtation.

In time, the SoHB discovered that nothing came of his suspicions. While I gave him space, I was also ever-present, reminding him that my friendship was still available. Our comradery restored itself, and we returned to our old routine of socializing on weekends with friends at the local pub. The element of romance was hardly missed, except for one brief moment when I thought he might win me back. I walked out of my front door one Sunday to find a single rosebud tucked beneath my windshield wiper. That single token wasn’t enough to sway my decision, but if he continued…

When I questioned him about it the next day, he expressed regret over making such a foolish gesture. He had chased after girls before, and he was resolved to never do it again.

Most of the time, I was proud of how we almost seamlessly flowed out of romance into friendship. I was certain this was how mature people handled breaking up. By November, we were content and secure in our friendship. This was the month that Jeri*, his oldest friend, was married. She had tried setting him up with a co-worker of hers for a while, and finally succeeded by arranging their first date to be at her wedding. When I learned of this, it touched a jealous streak I didn’t know I possessed. I made unsuccessful last-minute attempts to find my own date. I dreaded the blessed day.

If I’d had a date, perhaps I wouldn’t have felt so uncomfortable. The Flirt was there solo, as well. It helped. We more or less kept each other company throughout. It became my aim to unobtrusively observe the SoHB’s behavior with his date. I wondered if he would be attentive to her. I wondered if he would show her the interest of which I suspected I hadn’t been worthy. I felt a mixture of pleasure and dismay that he completely lacked any chivalrous manners. Although I would have been hurt to see him fawn over her, I hated seeing him be so unimpressive. He seemed ignorant of all the courtesies a gentleman pays a lady. I found myself torn between coaxing him to offer her a drink, and secretly being pleased that he hadn’t done so by his own volition.

The newly married couple held an informal party at their home after the reception. (I guess everyone is doing it these days. I’ve been to three weddings where they did this.) Everyone imbibed without restraint. As often occurs, the boys and girls segregated to talk about each other. Conversation was unmemorable until the SoHB’s date left us. Immediately, the conversation turned to the SoHB and his ineptness with women. Jeri had also been trying to urge him in the right direction all night. She turned to another friend and said, “You know, the SoHB and Kwirk dated a few times….” I didn’t react, but it bothered me. We hadn’t just “dated a few times.” We had been involved, but here was his closest friend displaying ignorance of it. At least her input made me feel a bit better that it wasn’t just me. He couldn’t give the appropriate attention to any girl.

We left the party at the same time. On my way home, he called me on my cell phone after dropping off his date. I asked him to come over. We made out for the first time since… I can’t even remember. All the while I insisted that he not take me too seriously. I strove to be completely frank about my mixed up feelings and behavior… that they did not mean I wanted to be with him or keep him from being with someone else. I told him as we lay together that I considered this night a final farewell. It was to be a bittersweet ending.

He continued to date the girl briefly. I don’t know who ended it, but he later told me that he hadn’t been ready yet. I’ve wondered if I unintentionally sabotaged that relationship.

The next several months were spent in a paradox of growing ever more dependent on him while trying to distance myself. Most of the time I felt that he was still too attached, but I recognized a co-dependency in myself, as well. Around the first anniversary of our breakup, I developed a slight crush on The Flirt. For once the SoHB had perfect timing. A little health scare made him take notice of his diet and give sobriety a turn. He also began a religious work-out regimen during his lunch breaks. He turned down all happy hour and lunch invitations. This worked well for me at this point. I had no desire to start a relationship with The Flirt, but I wanted the freedom to show interest in anyone I chose without reservation. Before his sobriety, I had also managed to end his drunken 2AM phone calls and visits to my door. I was moving on.

The summer was always a demanding travel season at my company. I spent most of it on the road. I returned to find The Flirt disinterested in me. He was infatuated with someone else. The SoHB slowly came off of his sobriety, but maintained his diet and exercise. I soon noted that he had completely lost the beer belly and was looking fine in his blue jeans. I found myself attracted to him as never before. I tried distracting myself with The Flirt, but that came to a screeching halt when I found out that he conspicuously disappeared from my Halloween party to have a liaison with a scantily clad Cher. “Cher” was a co-worker with a penchant for flashing her augmented breasts, plus many embarrassing drunken moments. She was someone The Flirt had always claimed to disdain and was smart enough to leave alone. When I learned of his indiscretion with her, my attraction to him evaporated… poof! ... Gone. The only desirable person left was the SoHB.

It started gradually, insidiously. Shivers ran through me when he passed my desk at work. I found myself missing those early morning phone calls and visits. If he participated in an event, I wanted to be there. I might skip it if he wasn’t. I wanted his attention in spite of myself. I defied caution to receive it. We again became so tightly entangled, I began to fear what might happen if one of us became involved with someone. I began to fear what might happen to me.

I took inventory, sifting through all of my options. While The Flirt possessed a certain sex appeal, he was wholly unsuitable. While I was exposed to men of confidence, charm, and ambition, no one could tug at my heart like the SoHB. All paths pointed back to him. He was, without a doubt, my best friend. To him, I divulged my secrets. In him, I trusted more than anyone. I’d found in him the rare quality for which I wished above all else… a gentle spirit. Looking over our history, also, I believed our struggles might have made us right for each other. I realized that the divergent issues of religion and politics no longer burdened me. I saw that in our dating relationship, both of us had been on the rebound. Those past heartaches were finally healed. Lastly, my physical attraction to him was stronger than I ever thought possible.

These thoughts plagued me as I reconsidered the state of our relationship. There were still significant doubts. I couldn’t escape my concern over his drinking. I also feared that a renewed romance was doomed, and this time, a friendship wouldn’t arise from the ashes. But, I doubted our friendship could survive anyway if one of us found someone. One fateful night in late December, the fear became a reality.

We had our typical Friday night happy hour, this time with a few different faces. The only regulars from our illustrious crew were the SoHB and I, together as always. When the restaurant started closing around midnight, the SoHB, our co-worker, Janeice*, and I were the only ones remaining. They were not ready to end the evening. I, however, had resolved to drink and party less. I felt it had spun out of control over the last couple of months. The SoHB had friends who called him from a nearby bar. He wanted to join them. If anything could dissuade me further, that was it. There was a long, complicated history between a certain friend of his and my family. I knew him before I met the SoHB and never cared for him. The SoHB knew this and had never pressured me to spend time with that friend until this night. He was petulant that I wouldn’t consider joining them. I didn’t understand how he could expect it of me. He knew how uncomfortable that person made me. Besides, I reasoned, I wasn’t his girlfriend.

Janeice told the SoHB to wait outside. She wanted to talk to me for a minute. When he stood to walk away, he glared at me in such a manner I hadn’t seen since the night of Beerfest. I was puzzled. Why didn’t he understand? Janeice looked me in the eye and said, “Don’t you see what this means to him? Don’t you see what this is? It’s a test. He’s testing you to see how much you care. C’mon and go. What will it hurt? It will make him feel better.”

I studied the carpet and shook my head in bemusement. My mind flooded with thoughts. A test?!! How many times had he failed me? …And at nothing so difficult as what he was asking. What made him think he could ask anything of me… require this sort of thing from me? We weren’t a couple. It might get confusing sometimes, but we weren’t. Besides, it wasn’t all about his friend. I had resolved to not stay out late. I was trying to look out for myself. He should understand. He would have to deal with it.

I shook my head and said, “I can’t, Janeice. I just can’t.”

He sat in his car waiting for Janeice. He barely glanced at us approaching. I told him I was sorry, but I couldn’t go. He nodded, saying that he understood… that it was okay, but there was something about his demeanor that was not okay. Something … defeated. I hesitated, but he had said it was all right. I went home. Much later, I learned that after meeting his friends, at his third bar of the night, he met an old acquaintance. Things began to change drastically.

***TO BE CONTINUED***

*=Names have been changed to protect those whom I like.