The Lonely British King

This blog took a hiatus when I met Pedro.  Our relationship felt so precious that I couldn’t and wouldn’t tarnish it with my acidic snark.  I could turn the rest of the Tinder fellows into caricatures, but my Pedro, my love, I would not.   If I briefly sum up our 18 month relationship, turn the highs and lows and happy and sad tears into a quick summary, it would look like this: 6 months of inquisitive bliss in a bubble.  Big blow up. 6 months of doubt but furiously treading water and hoping for sunnier skies.  Bigger blow up.  6 months of trying to end it but never wanting to.  I am so envious of that couple in the first 6 months- they had it all.   But isn’t that always the case?  Ignorance is bliss until it isn’t.  I am so sad and regretful for the downward spiral of the final 6 months.  I should have cut him loose when I really had doubts instead of keeping him close to me and constantly chipping away at him, at us.   By the end he said I had worn him down, exhausted even his romantic heart.  We needed to break up, but so much of my behavior towards the end was unnecessary and shameful; we degraded something that was once special.   This unfortunately seems to figure in my thoughts much more prominently than the logical reasons why we ended everything.

And now here I am, 5 months after our final night together, still turning over what this means in my head.  My grief hits me like waves of nausea- a moment, a conversation comes back to me and sends me into a tailspin.  I haven’t seen him since the morning I left his apartment, but my eyes deceive me and I see his ghost everywhere.   I am terrified I will see him on a date and skirt restaurants we once frequented.  I never realized how many bald men were in New York until I broke up with one I ached for.    

A friend sent me an article on Lifehacker that suggests little Tinder flings are like paper cuts- they don’t get the sympathy that broken marriages or cohabitations receive (rightly so) but they hurt.   It wasn't the longest relationship I had been in, but it rocked my world and brought down my defenses.  I know Pedro never felt that way and wanted to keep pushing past the boundaries, but for me, at least for a year, I let them down.  I gave him a key to my apartment and loved finding him there.  We spent every night together, and bathed each other every morning.   He scrubbed my back, then I scrubbed his, and always rinsed off the soap so I  could press a kiss to the shoulder I loved.   We had an intensely intimate relationship, and I miss it.

This relationship was a tease.  I saw a preview of life with a man who loved to bake bread and spatchcock organic chicken, then take me to bed and make love all night long.  I found him intensely attractive, loved his body and how our bodies moved together.   He made me laugh and he brought passion to my life.  In this movie trailer, you don’t see the problems and wounds, or the nature of two fractured persons struggling to trust each other.  But how will I find someone like this again, who shares my interests and humor and makes me weep with pleasure?  

A friend of a friend gave me his unused extra bed from an apartment he sold in Dubai- a very comfortable and luxurious British King.  Every night I roll to the middle of my big bed, and throw my arm across a pillow.  In my most secret thoughts, I imagine this is him, and he pulls me close into the nook of his chest and arms.  I don’t know if its still Pedro, or the faceless person I hope will come along sooner rather than later, but I wonder how many people in Brooklyn are living in their little apartments, moving through their lives, imagining that someone is holding them at night.