*The following is a compiled series of posts published in the OpenDiary circa Spring 2025. As the site is condemned, I’ve decided to transfer this entry in the name of preservation. *
In these entries, I all too often speak of love in terms of deficits: a bemoaning of missed milestones, an expression of intense longing, a fraught sense of resignation for a young love I would never experience. So overstated since boyhood, that such realities have become almost integral to my personality. In some ways it’s felt like a deformity, a character flaw left in a cellar in some wooden cask, producing the most bitter wine that could only be received as an acquired taste. And up until recently, I felt as if this was my lot in life: myriad noble pursuits, and none of the romantic love or excitement that I thought a man of my age and station was worthy of experiencing.
But oh, the myriad ways in which God surprises you, delights you, then reliably allows those joys to be dashed to shards at your feet.
MILLHOUSE: “Hey man, did you want to go to karaoke tonight?”
ADAM: “Wow… what a coincidence. I’m already here. Yeah, just come on over, there’s almost nobody.”
MILLHOUSE: “We’ll be over in an hour.”
ADAM: “‘We’ll’? Nice. Who’s joining us?”
MILLHOUSE: “Friend of mine, I don’t think you’ve met.”
ADAM: He pauses, raising an eyebrow …”Alright, I’m looking forward to meeting them!”
I stuff the cell phone into my vest pocket as the KJ announces my name. I sing a number worthy of this much older crowd. They cheer, and I return to my barstool for an hour, drinking the hours old decaf coffee for half an hour, drawing in my sketchpad, enjoying the concentration of boomer talent to follow.
I see my friend approaching from the parking lot with aforementioned friend in tow, walking about a yard apart. New girlfriend? So quickly on the rebound? Given his recently stated desire to take a break from the process, this was unexpected, but certainly not out of character. We met up at the patio seating, where we greeted each other, hugging before he lit a cigarette, handing another to his guest. A tall, fair-skinned young woman between 27-35, auburn hair in a ponytail, bangs hanging on her forehead. She introduces herself as Michelle, a travel and screenwriter who was back in the bay area after an extended stay in Hawaii. Sharp, blue eyes….Her gaze lingering longer than usual, but in my autistic, unassuming mind, I paid it no heed. The exchange continues, and there’s not a moment’s silence between us, as we go on about our lives, exchanging quips and puns before we go inside.
She mentioned liking my vest, rubbing her fingertips against the thin nylon surface, the first time a woman s0 attractive has paid this kind of attention to me in recent memory Blushing, I thank her, saying that I liked its vintage look and feel. The two of them grab their drinks, and we park at a table close to the performance space at the end of the bar, a party of six older adults sitting to our right.
We continue in our conversation, the banter and quips exchanged like a ping pong ball in a good game. I learn that, like me, she spent her formal education at private schools, is on the spectrum, is also a quarter Japanese. She delights. Conversation feels natural, as if it’s supposed to happen.
As the night goes on, we sing a few songs between us. Millhouse, being a seasoned musician dazzles with some garage rock number. I sang David Bowie’s Starman, which she complimented, saying I sounded exactly like the original. Following two numbers, she was called to the stage, where she performed a rousing number of Kate Bush’s “Running up that Hill.” Her voice carries a professional timbre, a true soprano with absolute command. The crowd is floored. A gentleman to her right, bearded, well-dressed, apparently in his late sixties to early seventies sparks up a conversation with her, as I offer to grab some ice waters for the table. I walk up to the counter, a slightly besotted man whom I’d spoken to earlier in the evening says something to the extent of, “She likes you.” I try to brush off the inevitable. Not quite knowing how to take that observation, I state the obligatory, “do you really think so?” then walking back to the table. The same older gentleman is still conversing with Michelle, who appears quite uncomfortable. Millhouse gets up for his second number, prompting Michelle to scoot immediately to her right. As I reclaim my seat, she leans in saying “I don’t want to sit next to that guy any longer. I’d rather sit next to you.” I blush. Still, she could just as well be trying to forge a friendship, or prevent the possibility any further unwanted conversation with the older gentleman drunkenly trying to shoot his shot.
She asks to look through my sketchpad. To avoid sharing anything truly incriminating, I only turn to the pictures of which I feel the most proud. “Well, these are all very nice,” she states in earnest.
“But what was on the pages that you didn’t show me?”
I pause, then mention something to the effect of not being terribly proud of on what was left unseen.
She smiles, asking to draw my portrait, promising that it will be the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I nod, curious as to how she plans to go about this. I do my best to keep myself still, although she says it’s unnecessary. The end result is a childish caricature: my ridiculous jawline, cleft chin, bushy eyebrows, and messy hair all apparent and hilariously depicted; I can’t help but smile.
“Now do mine.”
“Are you sure?”
She laughs and nods. As an illustrator, it a simultaneously an honor and a high-stakes gamble to be commissioned in this manner, no matter how casual or inconsequential. In this scenario, though uncompensated, it felt as if any future with this young lady was contingent upon making something worthy of the beauty I beheld.
….Let’s see….GCAT: Gesture, Construction, Anatomy, Technique…
MICHELLE: “Is it okay if I move?”
ADAM: “Yeah, don’t worry about it; just make yourself comfortable.”
MICHELLE: smiles sweetly, eyelashes fluttering
Though the source of light was limited, the collection of sounds was overwhelming, I made a fairly competent illustration of her.
MICHELLE: Wow…you made me look…pretty…
ADAM: Nature does that just fine.
MICHELLE: ….Oh c’mon…I’m blushing now..
I’m reminded of one of my favorites, Vanilla Sky; The events are playing out similarly: guy’s best friend brings attractive female guest to engagement, guy is charmed by her. The two separate from his friend. She makes a deliberately awful caricature, while he puts his best foot forward, in kind only there’s no Cameron Diaz to drive me into a wall and put me into a coma as a Sigur Ros song plays . Is there some lesson to be gleaned about my own mortality here?
“Every passing minute is another chance to turn it all around.”
She leans into my ear
MICHELLE: If I didn’t make this obvious already, I like you.
Though I’ve heard this a number of times before, the feelings were seldom reciprocal. But in this moment, I feel an almost startling rush of endorphins. I hear music that drowns out whatever the folks at this karaoke lounge are singing. My smile is huge at this point, curling upward like Charlie Brown’s when he’s kissed by that Red Haired Girl.
ADAM: I feel the same way.
She then proceeds to write her number under my quick sketch after taking a small snapshot on her phone. We spend about another half hour there before one of the older women proceeds to belt out Queen’s “Fat-Bottom Girls,” grabbing Michelle by the shoulder, telling her she has to stay and dance. We wait for a few minutes longer before leaving the lounge.
At this point, Millhouse has knocked back a few more than anticipated, and it’s on his breath. She tells me that she’s not comfortable with the thought of riding home with him. At moments like this, I’m glad that I’m not a drinker– It’s better for everybody. She asks to come with me if only to carry on with our conversation on the car ride. I learn that she lives on the same road, that she is Auditioning for a local production of Cabaret.
I receive a kiss on the cheek, the first one I’ve had in a few years…easily.
She walks back into her house, as I drive home more lucid, more joyous than just a few hours before.
In those moments, I felt human.
…. like a real man.
… Is this true joy?
-END PART ONE-
“I want something good to die for
To make it beautiful to live
I want a new mistake, lose is more than hesitate
Do you believe it in your head?”
-Queens of the Stone Age: “Go With the Flow”
The following Thursday, we’ve already got it penned in. A relationship with reciprocity: such an outcome places me into unique existential territory. In the years in which I’ve been dating, the arrangements have gone in one of two disappointing directions: 1) I’m not attracted to or am otherwise repelled by the woman I’m dating. 2) I’m attracted to her, and while I think something’s there, I’m ghosted or dismissed outright. So, in these instances, despite circumstances being ideal there’s this visceral dread that I’m either being used, or that this will all turn out to be a dream, and I’ll wake up with the same longings, the same resignation: business as usual.
I sit at the park bench of one of those cafes who made the most of their shelter-in-place restrictions but grew attached to the idea of having a small section of the street cordoned off to cars and repurposed for outdoor entertainment and drinks. Two boomer-ish men with acoustic guitars serenade the burgeoning alleyway crowd, Los Gatos people bringing their dogs. their families, while the duo play a few recognizable cover songs.
I must’ve waited fifteen minutes before hearing the buzz from my phone.
MICHELLE: Hi, I just finished my workout, and I’m headed over to where you are. Pardon the delay, I had to shower.
ADAM: No worries, I’ll see you soon!
The same auburn haired young woman eventually strolls onto the plaza where we greet each other with warm hugs. She is wearing some faded overalls over a pink blouse. We chat for a bit over drinks: A frozé for her, a cold brewed coffee for me. We chat about upcoming auditions for musicals, as she expresses her excitement over an upcoming production of Cabaret, which she tells me is one of her favorites. I tell her that if the previous meeting’s song and dance were reliable points of reference then she’d be a shoe-in. Incredulity, however. As she is a woman of higher stature and “thick” by her own admission, the casting directors would be less than likely to bill her in leading roles. I think she is more than worthy. She is lovely at every inch.
We then venture to dinner. Along the way, we walk arm in arm, as she compliments my arms; the first time a woman has done so in the context of such an interaction. At the time, this was difficult for me to process. Though I have been working out for the past fifteen years with some consistency, most people aren’t too keen on stating their observations outright. But when a woman I fancy does this, I feel somehow fulfilled.
We arrive at Pedro’s, a California style Mexican restaurant which underwent a year long remodel. As the evening is young, the two of us are seated rather promptly by the pleasant maitre-d’ who led us to a semicircular booth where we sat shoulder-to-shoulder, the first time I have ever done this with a woman. As we await our dishes, she tells me more about her adventures: Several years spent in France following university, having gone to a private school for her formative education, her time as an editor for a popular blog, her extensive travels to obscure locales following the end of her tenure at said publication. Despite her young age, this is a woman who’s led a purely and utterly remarkable life, one of which many would envy.
Despite the breadth of her travels, there is so much overlap in our experiences and narratives. We are both of the same level of Japanese ancestry, both students of private schools, both native children of the bay area, both on the autism spectrum, both transfers into the UC system via the Southbay’s community college system, both distinctive flavors of Christian: She’s a Catholic (Latin Rite), and I’m a Presbyterian. What’s not to love? What are the odds that I or anybody else meet their Genderswapped counterpart in this dimension or any other?
She has a margarita, the cold perspiring yellow colloid in a saucer shaped glass is slowly sipped, as I put away roughly three iced teas. The meal arrives: three carne asada tacos, two enchiladas, and another dish that I can’t seem to recall. We share the two dishes between us- the first time I’ve done so with A woman. We continue talking for quite some time, occasionally interrupted by the drunken guffaws of the older women at the opposite booth. We pay the tab, thanking the waitstaff and maitre-d’, when we decide that neither of us want the evening to end just yet.
…Which takes us to the same karaoke lounge we’d visited during our first encounter. She orders a drink despite expressing intentions to go easy on the stuff earlier. I get the usual decaf coffee, as this is one of the only bars in the area which offers such a thing at such an hour. Now at this point, the bar is sparsely crowded, save for two middle-aged women, one of whom Michelle recognizes as a casting director at a nearby community college– who happened to snub her from a role. We both put in a song: she performs something from Mama Mia! and I, another Bowie number. As usual, she dazzles, prompting a compliment from the two older women at the bar. But alas, as I am a fully employed man, our evening must come to an earlier end on a school night.
I enjoy her company, so much to the extent that I will always opt for the backroads when driving to the next destination. She fumbles around the iPad interface to find a very specific rendition of her favorite recent Broadway tune, only to sing it to me as we’re driving home…If ever there was any doubt that something was there, that would all disappear.A kiss goodnight.
An invitation for the next time..
Amidst forty years of fumbling, in but two evenings, it feels as if I’ve finally become a real man…no, a human being! For so long, in the absence of love, of purpose, I’ve felt myself subhuman, an invertebrate lugging around a homosapien’s shell, longing for the same degree of interaction that played out before me. But now, I feel longed for…Desired…And the feelings are mutual… Is this what was missing?
-END PART 2-
It’s her. (Pt 3)
“Got the music in you baby, tell me why….
Got the music in you baby, tell me why…
You’ve been trapped in here forever, and you just can’t say goodbye. ”
Cigarettes After Sex: “Apocalypse”
WOMAN: I need you to come over for cuddles; no questions asked.
MAN: Alright…but be mindful, I have work tomorrow morning, and you haven’t even told me your address.
I wish that she’d gotten that role
that her earlier suspicions were incorrect.
I wish that she’d have called shouting for joy
That the second callback led to desired results.
I wish that the casting company could see the beauty that I beheld
That love and raw talent were enough to see this dream to fruition
But the parameters of the stage are narrow and unimaginative
Their declarations of “inclusivity”are but virtue signals
But the phone call I received that evening
Were incoherent, and filled with tears
But why couldn’t she have been wrong?
I wish she’d gotten that role.
I’d taken a trip to Seattle during our school’s spring break; a week had passed since that last meeting where she seemed so hopeful, so filled with cheer. During the four-day trek, doing the best I could to play the part of a good boyfriend (were we even on these terms?), I would send daily text messages if only to see how the auditions went. The anticipation on her end was stifling. This would be the fulfillment of her girlhood dreams, an existential resolution where so much of the world seems dark and hopeless in the current trajectory. Instead, I received a message at the end of my trip stating that she hadn’t even gotten a callback. Indeed there was resignation, but what would unfold was the slow motion dissolution of another human being
The following Monday evening, I receive the text message; asking for me to come over with no strings attached. Though I enjoy spending time with her, the constraints of a teacher’s schedule still apply. So I proceed to ask for an address, if only to inquire about her welfare. Instead, about three hours’ time elapses before I receive a call at 11PM. She’s in tears, telling me between hyperventilations that she had an intense nervous breakdown which prompted her mother to contact the authorities. Though she’d made it clear how much this meant to her, I wasn’t aware of the toll that it would take upon her psyche. She hangs up before I can offer anything close to condolences…No matter how much time I might’ve had in hindsight,
A few days pass and I’m worried sick. I send the occasional instant message receiving terse monosyllabic responses of dread and despondence. On an overcast Friday, however, she would extend the invitation to go on a walk with her and her dog at a nearby park.
She has the house to herself, the countertops and sink are cluttered with unwashed bowls and utensils, the floor covered with torn-up tissue papers her little dog had gotten to earlier. We get into the car with her dog on a leash then she guides me towards a park that is closer to her childhood home. It’s a gated lot surrounded by tract homes, some of the relict facilities from when the region was still devoted to viticulture: a winery, a massive cellar, and a press. We walked through the perimeter of this park under an ashen sky. She goes on about the previous evening, how the rejection led into an alcohol-fueled nosedive, which caused reasonable alarm for her mother who suggested she go directly into AlAnon. And on that note, our meeting is cut short on account of her having to meet a sponsor. We say our farewells then go about the weekend.
…A day later, I would receive a response from her saying something to the effect of being committed to the pursuit of sobriety via AA. To this extent, she expressed an inability to go on any further dates. Again this is a woman with whom my feelings were reciprocal, someone who had taken my heart, and earned it. And in the course of a week, she inadvertently pulled it from my chest and kicked it into oblivion. For the remainder of the day, I wore that grief in furrowed brow and crooked neck. I felt vile, robbed, and ineffectual. Perhaps love isn’t felt in the presence of the beloved, but in the craters, stumps, and recesses from whence it was violently torn.
But the evening acting class was something of a remedy for the grief I took with me. Friends noticed that something was definitely off, as I’ve always emanated an aura of good cheer and silliness. Thankfully, there was a monologue which seemed reflect these sensations, and indeed it was the most visceral delivery I’ve given in quite some time, prompting some of those friends to ask if I was alright, and what the source of the grief was.
Later that evening I would hear from her again via text messages, asking why I never initiated a kiss, or if I was at all intimidated by her. I would explain that it wasn’t my nature to be so brash. Though I longed to kiss her when the time was right, I wanted to make sure she felt absolutely safe and actually desired something of the sort before leaning in….Perhaps that’s a rarity among men these days. After all, she had such a colorful track record, I openly confessed my virginity…something of which I am wholly ashamed of at this age. She reassures me that this isn’t a deterrent, but still asks for my rationale. I’m fairly open with such things when asked: High standards, low self-esteem, deeper insecurities. This line of questioning begs the question as to whether or not she wants to remain just friends or something else…
I sincerely wish that I weren’t operating from a place of unknowing.
For the longest time, it’s made matters unnecessarily complicated and awkward.
-END PART THREE-
“But this is wine
It’s all too strange and strong
I’m full of foolish song
“So please forgive
This helpless haze I’m in
I’ve really never been
in love before.”
-Chet Baker
SHE: Hey, do you want to come over? Millhouse is going through a rough patch and needs to vent.
HIM: Pauses Absolutely. I’ll head over after I’ve gotten washed up.
SHE: Great! I’ll see you soon!
This message caught me quite off guard. Immediately after my Wednesday workout, I drove over to Chipotle to keep it fast, cheap, and clean. Upon finishing my meal, I drove the remaining distance to her town home, which she had to herself for the next few weeks. As I’d arrived a little too early, she had just gotten out of the shower, and needed additional time to prepare. A quick apology, I went back into the car for ten minutes or so doing a few exercises on Duolingo to pass the time. Wet, dressed effortlessly, she invites me into her house, where she would tell me about her decision to put AlAnon on hold. Though I hadn’t questioned this aloud, she went on to state that it was far too cult-like for her liking.
Didn’t she just get through saying she wanted to be friends and needed the headspace to achieve sobriety?
Regardless, it was good to see her again, though it’s difficult to parse out her intentions given her dismissal of anything beyond friendship earlier that week. As the time went by, we continued to chat like that, walking through her messy kitchen, ceramic mugs and encrusted salad plates stacked along the countertop. She prepared me a cup of tea; I’d requested the decaf Earl Gray, as it was later in the day, and my sleep cycles had been significantly impacted earlier in the week on account of some now forgotten source of stress. We sat in her small living room chatting about life since our previous hangout until the Ring device chimed on a nearby device, letting us know that Millhouse was at the door. He arrived, liquor bottles and Gatorade in hand.
After a walk around her townhome complex with her dog, we asked our friend why specifically he needed to unwind. Though we’d feared for far worse, he went on about his hours at work, how adjusting to a new job had taken a massive toll on his schedules and sleep cycles. Just a month earlier, he’d been let go from his job of four years on account of economic conditions, only to immediately assume employment at a similar company, doing roughly the same tasks, leaving him without a weekend. And while this wasn’t terrible news, it’s kinda rough to see a friend enduring this.
We then sat at her table where she’d prepared us dinner- a well- prepared meatloaf with some broccoli rabe. As I’d eaten prior to my arrival, per my request, she’d given me but a sliver of those leftovers. Our conversation resumed as Millhouse continued regarding his experiences at work, when suddenly, I felt her bare foot deliberately rubbing against the surface of mine. I froze. Any shorter, I would’ve assumed that this was just a mistake, but between the elaborate movement of her foot, and occasional bouts of eye contact, this was far from an error. Then, the big toe sliding up my shin: the first time a woman has ever done this with me. Though inexperienced in these matters, I followed suit. It’s a dance, and I’m getting a well-structured lesson. Avoiding eye contact, biting my lip as my face went flush.
We continued with karaoke with but her television and PS4, singing along to songs on Youtube. Though somewhat awkward, there was so much charm and warmth in that isolated half an hour: a happy memory by all measure. But as ten o’ clock approached, I announced my departure. She accompanied me to the door, where we embraced, and she planted a kiss on my cheek. No, we weren’t just friends. Nothing that evening would suggest that.
…
The very next day, I received a text message.
SHE: Come over. I want you to massage my back with the Theragun.
HIM: Okay, I have something until six, but I’ll be there.
I drove over that evening, a twilight occluded by overcast skies. She greeted me at the door warmly as we immediately walked up the stairs to her bedroom. Her dog is naturally hyperactive, kept in a soft kennel, as we went about our business.
She lies prone on her bedroom floor and tells me exactly where the soreness is, bare shoulders exposed: the first time a woman has ever extended this invitation to me. Her skin is fair and smooth; no blemish or apparent exposure to the sun, but glows under the faint yellow ceiling lamp above us. I hesitate.
HIM: Are you sure this is okay?
SHE: yes.
I aim the drillike gadget between her scapula and humerus, guided by vibrating instructions, as her breathing becomes slower, heavier.
Placing both hands between her shoulder blades and spinal column, I dig my wrists into taut muscles hoping to loosen them. The woman below me breathes heavily, letting out soft moans as I undo stiff knots, knead, and rub.
SHE: Now it’s my turn to do you.
HIM: Are you sure?
SHE: nods
HIM: Mind you, I have a high tolerance for pain, so do what you will.
I lie prone on a worn-out bathroom towel stripping down to my undershirt. She tells me that she’d worked in a high-end massage clinic as a college job, evidenced by some of the instructions. She tells me to position myself so that certain muscle groups can be better accessed. Her hands are skilled. Again, the first time a woman has ever done this for me.
SHE: Now turn over….This is where we cuddle.
For the record, we’re fully clothed, she straddles me, placing her hand behind my head, pulling aside a lock of hair from my forehead. She smiles sweetly with perfect teeth as I’m trapped beneath a lattice of thick auburn hair and her inviting gaze. We kiss passionately, embracing each other warmly. She points to a mark on my forehead.
SHE: I want to be this freckle so badly.
Given my neurodiverse makeup, this all contributes to sensory overload. I start giggling uncontrollably as she has her way with me. Alarmed, she pulls away.
SHE: Wh-why are you laughing?
HIM: I’m sorry…I’ve never been in this position before…This is all new to me..
She picks up where she left off: Straddling grasping, occasionally gnawing at me.
SHE: Now it’s your turn.
HIM: …Are you sure this is okay?
SHE: Of course! What are you afraid of?
HIM: ..It’s nothing.
I awkwardly position my legs, looking uneasy and ashamed as she begins to chuckle. We continue that way, as the passionate kissing, grasping, and massaging continues.
Around eleven o’clock our play ends. She embraces me with a sweet kiss.
SHE: I want to do this again. We’re practically the same person, so I’m looking forward to it.
HIM: I feel exactly the same way.
SHE: Call me when you get home.
HIM: You mean in five minutes?
We laugh and part ways.
If only we’d stayed connected. If only she hadn’t vanished.
It’s her. (part 5: final)
“I carved your name across my eyelids
You pray for rain
I pray for blindness.”
-The Arcade Fire- Crown of Love”
The kids call it “ghosting”- an abrupt end to romantic love without anything so grandiose as a reason- without anything so clear as a goodbye. Unlike a breakup (I would imagine), the inevitable ambiguity of such an outcome leads to a dull, malingering pain which acidifies the bloodstream, dissolving any hope, any joy, any degree of self-esteem, until all that remains is a hollowed-out lurching mass, haunted by reverberations of a voice whom he longs to hear again, the taste of lips he wants to kiss, the sensation of a body he wishes to embrace. And though it’s been nearly a month since she went silent, save for vague still frames and short video shared on social media reels (if it was bad enough to cut off communication, why not block me? ) which I can’t help but catch at the top of my timeline. Certainly, it would be incumbent upon me to remove her from my own list, but such a gesture would prove incredibly petty given the ambiguous circumstances behind her silence.
There is no modern romance.
She invites me to go rock climbing on the Friday following that ecstatic evening. I relished the opportunity irrespective of my feelings on the activity; I would be spending time with the woman I loved and wanted to know better. After work, I picked her up from her mother’s townhome, she comes outside in her activewear. Naturally, I compliment her appearance which I would imagine good boyfriends would do for their women . She insists on giving driving directions to the climbing gymnasium in Downtown San Jose; a twenty minute drive from Los Gatos in rush hour. By no means is this unfamiliar territory, yet she insists upon a very specific route. She wants to play a song on the car’s iPhone interface, but seems to be fumbling. Of course, I offer my assistance, which causes a bit of distraction; I swerve a bit within the lane, which causes her to become reasonably startled. I apologize, to which she responds by saying that she’ll be driving the next time.
We arrive Downtown where she, again, insists upon parking along the city’s side streets in hopes of finding free parking. As it is a First Friday, large crowds have amassed on First Street, to which I’m inclined to mention that I’m okay with paying for the premium parking in one of the city’s many paid parking structures. She poo-poos the idea, saying that paid parking isn’t worth it, and in past instances in which she has used such services, she drove so closely to the rear of an exiting vehicle so she wouldn’t be ‘t responsible for paying her fare. Though this a reasonably sketchy admission, I brush it off. After all, what good would it do to sow any level of discord where I am hoping to establish harmony?
We sign in and climb. It’s not terribly difficult at this point in my life, it’s just…new.. She instructs me to scale the slightly inverted wall, telling me to follow stones of the same color. As the floor is cushioned, the landing is nothing to fear. I am able to succeed a few paths without problems, but some cause me to stumble almost immediately. But all the while, she seems more detached, slipping into some unmentioned, but somehow still familiar void. We drive home, she insists on taking a specific exit (despite my suggestion) which turns out to be under construction. Though this hitch in her driving directions causes her some frustration, I don’t take any pleasure in being proven right.
Our final stop is the 7-11 across the street from her complex, where she grabs a few bottles of Gatorade and a tallboy of lager. Though she was reasonably cavalier in her pursuit of sobriety, even during our first meeting, she so easily lets go. I pull up in front of her house, where she gives me a hug, saying that she would like to go to her (Catholic) service on that upcoming Sunday. I agree to this.
There is no modern romance.
I would text her over the next few days, hoping to catch up again; hoping to catch her in a better mood. Though this too proves to be a window to a psyche in terminal decline.
SHE: Hey, I’m feeling lazy today, so let’s go to mass another time.
HIM: Okay, no worries! I hope you’re doing okay.
Two days would go by without much in the way of contact. Any attempts at correspondence were met with monosyllabic responses.
HIM: Hi, how are you holding up?
SHE: I’m doing good.
HIM: Glad to hear this. What are you up to on Wednesday?
SHE: I’m sorry but I’m busy on Wednesday.
HIM: Okay, well, when are you available this week?
….regrettably, this is the last line she ever uttered to me. Though I would call and leave a message on that Friday, she never spoke to me again.
There is no modern romance.
The weeks went by without any further correspondence, which began a prolonged erosion of my mental and physical health. Entire days at work would progress, and I was half-present. Though I put up a strong enough front by which to avoid any suspicion and prying from my students and coworkers, Inside of my chest was the slowest, smallest black hole in the universe, sucking away every last bit of joy I’d finally achieved in previous weeks- everything sucked into a singularity of self-loathing and hopeless longing. I would bring up the same story to close friends, my hair stylist, my mother, my older brother, which did indeed diminish the hold this undesired outcome had on my psyche, but at the same time, the only evidence I had of this woman’s existence was through the short form feed on social media reposts and the occasional photograph of her pets. Though I could have easily avoided clicking on any of these posts, lord help me, they were at the top of my goddamned feed, and often the first name to pop up.
The friends with whom I shared this tale mostly offered the same suggestions: Let her go. Don’t even call. Don’t even pick up. This woman is an alcoholic, and will only take you down with her. Clearly, I missed some red flags. Clearly, I viewed what could have been my first real longterm relationship through rose-colored lenses. But even though I agreed, I had been in the presence of an angel when she was at her best. My body hadn’t forgotten hers. Some state that the connections we’d experienced at that point were based on projections I had upon her; an active pursuit of those commonalities. Others state that this would just prove to be a valuable lesson in my own value that I hadn’t seen in previous seasons. However, my lips still quiver when thinking about the kissing, the gnawing, her groping at me greedily, her fingers in my hair. The grief was heavy indeed, but I never wept. I’ve been at the bottom of the same fucking pursuit for forty years.
There is no modern romance.
I think of this relationship, in which I found my reflection in a living woman- the Anima to my Animus, all within such a fortuitous frame of time- in which I was truly and genuinely happy- only to be blown apart by the devil.
Indeed, I cannot help but think about this in its spiritual dimensions. From our initial interactions to the manner in which it all collapsed, I am given a devastating portrait painted beautifully by the God I love and worship, only to be torn asunder by the Adversary. For the longest time, I bore resentment of this Jesus of whom I am follower and servant, why he would allow me to be deprived of the love I’ve desired for so long, put me in circumstances which were irrevocably and almost supernaturally engendered, only to permit me to experience such a downfall. Did He think me too immature for the sort of love I desired? Was I making our bond into an idol against the One True God? It all struck me as an affront to whatever I wanted in life, the awkward interactions, the standing on the sidelines wanting to say so many things, but never having the right words, the evenings of crying, wanting so much more than I’ve had, the instances in which I’ve had to break the hearts of women I didn’t want, only to have this to be the outcome.
But despite my persistent wailings, I was brought back to my senses with whom I knew Jesus to be. While He did indeed allow this to happen, I am reminded of the God who wept over his friend, who wept over his doomed Jerusalem, who was surrounded by the sights of his own creations enduring leprosy, blindness, demonic possession, and even death, feeling their collective weight. Surely this is a God who weeps with me. Surely, I am not alone in bearing this burden.
But still, what can be said of a man in this predicament? Why has this desire existed in my heart for so long? In my youth, it made sense. This was something most wanted. As an adult, it feels as if I can’t help but feel as if I’ve been disqualified from the sort of life I’ve wanted; my body, my neurochemistry, present circumstances, not to mention the entirely fucked current paradigm of modern dating, it feels as if the love I’ve wanted is deadweight; no a cancer. Why would the God who loves me place this desire for young love in my heart, only to make its fulfillment damn nigh impossible?
God help me, I don’t know what to do anymore. There doesn’t seem to be a happy ending here.
If you’re near me,
I won’t be far.
I can always be found.
I can always be found.
I can always be found.
Liars- “The Other Side of Mount Heart Attack”
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