Trying to connect with her was like trying to lasso the wind, and like the wind, she was there, but not there. Sometimes what we felt with and for each other was gale force. Other times, there was barely a breeze to relieve an oppressively hot day.
But she wasn’t a weather system, or a high pressure zone, or a tropical depression – she was a woman, and her abrupt and inexplicable withdrawal left a hole in the middle of my life, and in my heart. The hole is larger than I thought, especially relative to the duration of our relationship. Only half a year. And it was only the first 4/6ths of it that were really, really good. Then the long, slow downward slide began.
Was it the anti-depressants she was taking? Or was it the depression itself? Or, was it fear on her part? A fear of reality, perhaps, and connection, and love, with everything that four-letter word means, both actually and potentially.
When she said to me, early on, that she’s a serial monogamist, I thought the emphasis was on the second word of that phrase. Instead, the emphasis was on the first word. Maybe she had an exit plan all along, and regardless of how intensely she felt love for me, regardless of how open and real and genuine it all was, we ran up against her self-imposed deadline, and that was it – party over.
The party’s been over for two and a half months now, and I can see how it’s going to be for me: every other woman, every other twinge of love, every other night spent entwined beneath the sheets, will be compared to her, to the twinges of love I felt for her, and to those entwined hours she and I shared. It will fade eventually, that seemingly unrequitable longing, and I suppose that will be a good thing for me, to say nothing of whomever else I am trying to forge a relationship with. It will fade, and that will be good, but there is a hole deep within me that may never completely close up, nor heal. I won’t treasure that unhealed piece of me, I won’t cling to it like a pathetic emotional raft, but I will remember. I will always remember.