hands and then at him, not sure if he was actually crying or just trying to make it look like he was. And then two words flashed across my mind:
crocodile tears
.
“I have to go,” I said.
I was crying now. He was still holding my hand, and I was still too shocked to withdraw it, so I stood up slowly, steadying myself with my other hand on the table until we both let go. I put my jacket on, picked up my bag, and looked around the bar one last time.
“How ironic,” I hissed. “This is where we started out that first night. And this is where we end up. You couldn’t have planned it better.”
Ray looked wounded. “I didn’t plan on this part happening.”
“Oh,
right
.” I stood there, unable to move, as if I were half-expecting him to take it all back. But he just put some money down on the table, walked with me to the door, and put his arms around me there in the ugly little vestibule.
And though I knew better—knew that I shouldn’t allow myself to accept his comfort, his consolation—when his arms tightened around me, I couldn’t help leaning my head lightly against his shoulder out of habit until I realized that what he was offering me was not actual comfort but only the memory of it.
Short of death, I think, there are few things sadder in this life than watching someone walk away from you after they have left you, watching the distance between your two bodies expand until there is nothing but empty space, and silence.
Standing there on First Avenue watching Ray walk away from me, until he was lost in the crowd of foot traffic and there was nothing else for me to do but walk away too, I felt the air escape from my lungs in a long, slow rush. And then, because nature abhors a vacuum, I felt a deep, heavy weight move in and take its place, the deep, heavy weight that was my heart, and I thought:
You asshole. You fucking asshole
.
(Of course I would have taken him back in a second.)
It’s funny now to think about how different I was then, how I still believed in boyfriends coming back, eventually. If Ray left me today, I’m sure I would make a lot of bitter jokes or simply keep my mouth shut. Because I’ve learned that most of the time they don’t come back, no matter how long you wait for them to. But at that point I hadn’t been left yet, at least not that way—for seemingly no reason, while we were seemingly still in the throes of passion—and so I still thought there were ways to bring people back, will them back, like mediums calling spirits.
David was the only person I knew who had been left like that, and when I trudged across town to his apartment and stood in his doorway shaking and sobbing, he seemed to understand what had happened and what I was thinking and feeling more than I did.
“After Andrew,” he said, “I forced myself to go out, to meet people, to date. But every time I did, every time I was out with someone or in bed with someone, I’d think,
But they’re not him
. And they weren’t. And you’re going to think that for a while too, because they’re not Ray either, and somehow you’re going to have to believe that even though they’re not Ray, there’s going to be someone else someday who will make you just as happy as he did.” He sat down next to me on the couch and sighed, as if he knew what I wanted to hear. “Maybe he’ll come back. And maybe he won’t. But nothing you do will affect that. You can wait for something that may never happen or you can start trying to get over him now.”
His words had a sense of finality to them, of hard-wonrealism, and after they’d hung in the air for a few seconds, I realized suddenly that my life would never be the same.
Of course it wouldn’t be.
I had gone through the looking glass and entered a parallel universe.
I had become an Old Cow
.
[ WEEPING SCENE DELETED .]
THE BIRTH OF AN OLD COW: STAGE I
ANGER, RAGE, GRIEF, DENIAL, AND THE MOVE TO A NEW BARN
Persons suffering from … grief … remain
crocodile tears
.
“I have to go,” I said.
I was crying now. He was still holding my hand, and I was still too shocked to withdraw it, so I stood up slowly, steadying myself with my other hand on the table until we both let go. I put my jacket on, picked up my bag, and looked around the bar one last time.
“How ironic,” I hissed. “This is where we started out that first night. And this is where we end up. You couldn’t have planned it better.”
Ray looked wounded. “I didn’t plan on this part happening.”
“Oh,
right
.” I stood there, unable to move, as if I were half-expecting him to take it all back. But he just put some money down on the table, walked with me to the door, and put his arms around me there in the ugly little vestibule.
And though I knew better—knew that I shouldn’t allow myself to accept his comfort, his consolation—when his arms tightened around me, I couldn’t help leaning my head lightly against his shoulder out of habit until I realized that what he was offering me was not actual comfort but only the memory of it.
Short of death, I think, there are few things sadder in this life than watching someone walk away from you after they have left you, watching the distance between your two bodies expand until there is nothing but empty space, and silence.
Standing there on First Avenue watching Ray walk away from me, until he was lost in the crowd of foot traffic and there was nothing else for me to do but walk away too, I felt the air escape from my lungs in a long, slow rush. And then, because nature abhors a vacuum, I felt a deep, heavy weight move in and take its place, the deep, heavy weight that was my heart, and I thought:
You asshole. You fucking asshole
.
(Of course I would have taken him back in a second.)
It’s funny now to think about how different I was then, how I still believed in boyfriends coming back, eventually. If Ray left me today, I’m sure I would make a lot of bitter jokes or simply keep my mouth shut. Because I’ve learned that most of the time they don’t come back, no matter how long you wait for them to. But at that point I hadn’t been left yet, at least not that way—for seemingly no reason, while we were seemingly still in the throes of passion—and so I still thought there were ways to bring people back, will them back, like mediums calling spirits.
David was the only person I knew who had been left like that, and when I trudged across town to his apartment and stood in his doorway shaking and sobbing, he seemed to understand what had happened and what I was thinking and feeling more than I did.
“After Andrew,” he said, “I forced myself to go out, to meet people, to date. But every time I did, every time I was out with someone or in bed with someone, I’d think,
But they’re not him
. And they weren’t. And you’re going to think that for a while too, because they’re not Ray either, and somehow you’re going to have to believe that even though they’re not Ray, there’s going to be someone else someday who will make you just as happy as he did.” He sat down next to me on the couch and sighed, as if he knew what I wanted to hear. “Maybe he’ll come back. And maybe he won’t. But nothing you do will affect that. You can wait for something that may never happen or you can start trying to get over him now.”
His words had a sense of finality to them, of hard-wonrealism, and after they’d hung in the air for a few seconds, I realized suddenly that my life would never be the same.
Of course it wouldn’t be.
I had gone through the looking glass and entered a parallel universe.
I had become an Old Cow
.
[ WEEPING SCENE DELETED .]
THE BIRTH OF AN OLD COW: STAGE I
ANGER, RAGE, GRIEF, DENIAL, AND THE MOVE TO A NEW BARN
Persons suffering from … grief … remain
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