"It was like he was preparing for it, in the entire eight years we were together," Terry said as she filled the gin and tonic of a business man.
Terry has it Together. In her red-headed, naturally beautiful state, and in her thirty-seven years, she has certainly figured it out. And as she hands me yet another vodka tonic, I feel comfort in her complacency. The fabled bartender at my favorite haunt is "pulled together" not because she was born that way, but because she has been through what I have, and then some.
"He killed himself... and I know it was a sort of mixed blessing. At the time, it was terrible, but it was sort of a relief," she continued, as she looked at her reflection in the bar, as if she were searching for reprisal. I looked at my own mirrored image, appropriately placed in a mirror between two Jack Daniels and Jim Beam bottles. I saw a youthful and rational face peering back at me, scorning me for my futile longings and lack of resilience.
"I'm still not over him," I tell her, followed by a sip of a freshly poured cocktail. She looks at me, with a grimace that is ironically comforting.
"He isn't worth it," she says, as she pulls the lever on the Lager tap. The foam of the beer spills over onto her hand, and she wipes it away instinctively. If only I could do the same with relationships, wipe them away like beer foam. And that's exactly what it is. When any carbonated beverage is poured too quickly, too impetuously, you get foam. I gave my heart too readily, and I'm drowning in the foam... not the desired product.
I thought of stumbling over to his apartment, a measly five-blocks-away. Despite all of the liquor, catering to the amorous and irrational mind, I decided to walk home. Such a process loosing your first love is....
I have been dating. But I stilled crave that problematic relationship which precedes everything. When I'm with other men, I still smell my first love. I picture him grabbing me behind my back, nestling his nose into my neck, and whispering, "we're going to work things out."
But it isn't going to happen. And I cannot wallow in moody music because of it. Everyone endures this plaguing reality, this wake-up call to idealism.
"Do you regret those years of being with him?" I ask Terry, as I fumble for my lighter.
Terry hesitated to answer, looking wistfully into an empty glass, soon to be filled with draft beer. "I don't... I definitely learned alot in that period. I knew it was over for a long time, but I would have never forgiven myself if I ended it before he ended his life."
Words that didn't suprise me... expected words. Sometimes you need someone else to manifest your own feelings in order to believe them. She's had it harder than me... the man I love didn't kill himself, and I certainly wasn't with him for such a period of time. And as she glides a wash-rag across a mahogany bar, self-assuredly, I realize something. If Terry can be happy, in her late-shift wisdom, so can I. But it wasnt going to happen last night.
Terry has it Together. In her red-headed, naturally beautiful state, and in her thirty-seven years, she has certainly figured it out. And as she hands me yet another vodka tonic, I feel comfort in her complacency. The fabled bartender at my favorite haunt is "pulled together" not because she was born that way, but because she has been through what I have, and then some.
"He killed himself... and I know it was a sort of mixed blessing. At the time, it was terrible, but it was sort of a relief," she continued, as she looked at her reflection in the bar, as if she were searching for reprisal. I looked at my own mirrored image, appropriately placed in a mirror between two Jack Daniels and Jim Beam bottles. I saw a youthful and rational face peering back at me, scorning me for my futile longings and lack of resilience.
"I'm still not over him," I tell her, followed by a sip of a freshly poured cocktail. She looks at me, with a grimace that is ironically comforting.
"He isn't worth it," she says, as she pulls the lever on the Lager tap. The foam of the beer spills over onto her hand, and she wipes it away instinctively. If only I could do the same with relationships, wipe them away like beer foam. And that's exactly what it is. When any carbonated beverage is poured too quickly, too impetuously, you get foam. I gave my heart too readily, and I'm drowning in the foam... not the desired product.
I thought of stumbling over to his apartment, a measly five-blocks-away. Despite all of the liquor, catering to the amorous and irrational mind, I decided to walk home. Such a process loosing your first love is....
I have been dating. But I stilled crave that problematic relationship which precedes everything. When I'm with other men, I still smell my first love. I picture him grabbing me behind my back, nestling his nose into my neck, and whispering, "we're going to work things out."
But it isn't going to happen. And I cannot wallow in moody music because of it. Everyone endures this plaguing reality, this wake-up call to idealism.
"Do you regret those years of being with him?" I ask Terry, as I fumble for my lighter.
Terry hesitated to answer, looking wistfully into an empty glass, soon to be filled with draft beer. "I don't... I definitely learned alot in that period. I knew it was over for a long time, but I would have never forgiven myself if I ended it before he ended his life."
Words that didn't suprise me... expected words. Sometimes you need someone else to manifest your own feelings in order to believe them. She's had it harder than me... the man I love didn't kill himself, and I certainly wasn't with him for such a period of time. And as she glides a wash-rag across a mahogany bar, self-assuredly, I realize something. If Terry can be happy, in her late-shift wisdom, so can I. But it wasnt going to happen last night.