The Lurid Details of a Perfectly Despicable Love Story

I fell in love quickly. Something about his spirit spoke to mine. When I met him for the first or second time my bones became heavier as though I was being anchored to the ground-I think that more aptly describes the feeling than the tired, "my knees were weak."

He wasn't stunningly handsome, or extraordinary. I couldn't put my finger on what the fucking force was that was grabbing me so violently. I didn't have to resist much at first, but my desire to be near him waxed and waned over the turn of the earth for which I knew him.

An unfortunate, or fortunate, chain of events happened in which I lost my identity. I really wasn't sure if I had the will or energy to look for it. He showed up on my doorstep dressed as my savior and I let him in. God, did I let him in.

Maybe because he spoke in riddles and tonalities that somehow reminded me of my late best friend, or maybe because for once I didn't have to explain myself... whatever the reason, I started giving to him. I unwrapped myself at his feet, and he picked me up and wound me all back together... Maybe not quite how I was before, but I verily believed I was better for it. He became my higher power. I thought every word that he said was creating me from nothing. I worshiped that.  But like my first God, he abandoned me in the dark.

He lived a different life in the nighttime. A family at home and a cosmic coincidence to attend to all the other hours of the day. In a sick way, I admired his commitment to unscrupulousness. I sometimes wondered how, logistically, he was able to sustain both, but every time that thought flowed through me, I let it congeal and tried to forget about his nighttime life. It always tainted our time together in the day.

I can't explain why the guilt only nibbled at me instead of utter mastication, but my conscience, or lack thereof, let me continue, unhindered by my silly morals and beliefs. I was a tergiversator and although that's one of my favorite words, I hate to use it as a self-descriptor.

One of my greatest resentments was with the vapid, home-wrecking, slut that stole my father. Since the enfolding of this story though, I've come to recognize her as another person who just wanted to be loved and understood. Fucking up sure has a way of humbling an asshole.

One similarity after another... Coincidences and improbabilities were piling up, making it undeniable to me that this man was somehow supposed to be part of my life.

Curiosity, dourness, insatiability, these qualities which impressed me, they pervaded him. The only thing I saw wrong with him was nothing. Admittedly, in coming out of a rose-colored fog, we were, in fact, not perfect for each other, but in my deluge of fantasy not even Cochran could convince me that this glove wasn't a perfect fit.

I regarded everything outside of him with utter apathy. Seeing him brought the same feelings to my life that chasing dope brought. Luckily though, it also carried with it the same denial and I wholeheartedly believed nothing was wrong.

He made me feel perfect. My jar of marbles was half-empty but he just put them in a smaller jar and suddenly I was complete again. He convinced me that all of my broken pieces were just parts of me...my reckless road map of ticks and obsessive thoughts in my head was just a beautiful tessellation. When he looked at me, his eyes were never still. He read me like I was his favorite book and drank in every detail.

I felt loved.
I felt loved.
I felt loved.
More than I ever had before. Maybe some of the intensity was born out of the taboo but it was an inferno inside me, every moment.

I wanted to know everything and for someone who was otherwise encumbered, he gave very freely. I couldn't get enough. Each new piece of information I learned about him gratified me in one way or another; his stories, his fears, his opinions, his pain, his lies, and his versions of the truth... they came out in waves that washed over me and washed over me and washed over me until I was drowning.

The first time he said 'I love you' nothing inside me believed him. I don't know if it was circumstance or habit but I just couldn't accept it as truth. The word Love bore into me and all at once I realized that none of this belonged to me. This wasn't my love to have. All the happiness turned to anguish. He left that day and a part of me hoped that he would never come back. As fate would have it though, he kept coming back and he kept telling me that he loved me. At first, I would say it like a question and he would say it like an answer but eventually, there was no question. I was in love with him and it swallowed me.

When I said it, instead of replying 'I love you too,' he only said 'I love you.' I preferred this because it felt less obligatory. It wasn't a requirement. Answering, reciprocating my love wasn't mandatory but he wanted to anyway and it was special.

The nature of something like this is that I didn't owe him anything. I gave him everything I had, though. He owed me even less than nothing but he gave me so much too.

The more enveloped I became, the less I grappled with the morality of it all.

Most days we spent hours together, we never exhausted the list of topics on which we both knew so much. We'd reference literature, and speak in Spanish to each other. We'd talk about wars, and presidents and history-laws and science and math and language. We broke down cliches and lies. We laughed at those who reveled in a small-minded intellectual poverty. We traded books and brought ideas to each other that we simply could not bring elsewhere. We talked about the things that all my friends thought were boring, we talked about the things that nobody wanted to say out loud... In so many ways, he was just like me. I never did find any significant differences.

He was an opiate. He filled my blood with ecstasy while slowly bringing me to my knees. I knew it, and I let it happen, and I kept returning for more. He was everything I always thought I wanted, save only the rather enormous fact that he was incapable of spending the night.

I woke up one day from my stupor of selfishness. I said "I don't want to put your happiness in jeopardy anymore, I don't want to help you self-destruct, and I love you too much to let you hate me for this." I think what I really meant was "I can't take this anymore." Saying that was out of the question though, because it meant I was giving up.

I wasn't. 

I started to understand the magnitude  of the possible consequences and it wrenched my gut. I prayed to God to remove my obsession. I prayed to God to please let me feel some sort of guilt. I prayed for something, anything, to happen that might foster new perspectives. 

I told him everything. I told him things I'd always been too scared to tell to others. I had to ask something of him, and for the first time I was scared of what he might say... I asked him to please let me go... He said that he didn't want to lose me, to which I replied "I don't want to lose myself in you. I can't stay." I just sat there waiting for him to hate me but he never did. We spent that whole day together saying Goodbye. I cried in his arms and apologized but he was so gentle and loving and he understood. We both knew he had nothing left to give and a finality set in that tied me up in knots. I said Goodbye 1,000 times and he walked down my path for the last time. 

... But it wasn't the last time. Not even 30 hours had gone by, most of them occupied by crying in the fetal position, and I took his subtle bait. I went to him and he came to me. Suddenly all my words became lies, and I ate them, and they made my stomach sick. 

The following day he was lost and I found him. We negated all the boundaries in a matter of minutes. I couldn't just give him up, no matter how loudly my conscience protested. He was too much of what I wanted and not enough of what I didn't. 

Time marched on, as it does. 

When I was with him it stood still, and when he left it would all come crashing back. I still always wanted more. The high that he gave me shrunk and shrunk until it only lasted the duration of our visits. As soon as his shoes left my porch, I was sick again. I loved him so much and my chest was tight and frozen.  I didn't want to live in a world without him and each time he left I was reminded that I would have to eventually. I knew that every step forward that we took was another step in a minefield. It was only a matter of time before things blew up. I was biding my time and formulating an escape route. I preferred death to living life on my knees. 

I crawled back into my old life with quivering hands and wavering certainty. Thoughtlessly, the words fell out of my mouth. "Can I get 5 buns?" I was trading away my money for a real opiate. One that would deliver me from this painful existence. It had been upwards of 500 days since my last fix and I knew I would die right out of the gate. Over the next week I made all the necessary preparations... I inconspicuously included him in my plans and he obliviously participated. Oblivious was a color he'd never worn before. It didn't suit him but I was glad all the same that he was wearing it.

The day before my last, I spent with him. We were bolder and greedier with our love this day. We went out of the house, driving in the daylight. I almost didn't care who saw us but for the problems it would create for him. I didn't worry. I was absolving myself. 

I must've said 'I love you' more than usual because he noticed. Our time together was coming to a close and he hugged me like he knew. 

After he left that day I went to work tying loose ends, while he was busy putting together some puzzle pieces that I had unintentionally given to him. He sent me a message that night to tell me "Today was perfect... Maybe because we finally had enough time." That must've been the moment that it occurred to him. Suddenly, 'enough time' wasn't quite enough. 

He threatened to call an ambulance or to call my closest friend but eventually he settled on dissuading me himself. He concocted a lie to tell so he could get himself out the door to spend a couple of hours with me. He met me at my place, like every other time. This time was different though, I felt nothing. We spent a few moments smoking cigarettes and then we went where we always did, under the blankets in my bed. I was despondent and he was desperate and pleading. We talked, and talked, and talked. 

He broke down into tears. I looked at his blue eyes through the mist and it broke my heart. I remembered the very last words I had spoken to my best friend. and I heard them come out of his mouth. I saw my own crying face instead of his... My whole world, my whole plan, my whole heart, crashed down around me in pieces. I couldn't let him feel the pain I had felt. I knew what that kind of pain could do to a person and I wanted nothing to hurt him. Not like that. He wasn't dressed like my savior anymore but he really saved me.

And he finally stayed the night...

For once my sleep was restful and uninterrupted. We woke up next to each other and for one second it felt perfect. Then... Panic ensued. I had a number of missed phone calls and messages. Most of them were from his girlfriend. She must've started investigating when he didn't come home. She told me she didn't care if he was with me, she just wanted confirmation that he was alive. 

We finally stepped on a mine. We had been so careful... 

We sat in stunned silence for a while and although not for the same reason as before, I knew this would be the last time we'd hold each other. He apologized for the storm that was coming, he kissed me and he said goodbye. He told me that he loved me for the last time and I watched him walk out my door before I collapsed into pieces. 

I couldn't cry. I was too shocked and blank and suddenly empty. I didn't want to deal with the consequences, or I couldn't, I'm not sure which... I couldn't lie in my bed knowing he'd never again lie next to me. I sprung out of bed, I packed a bag of only half-dried clothing and capriciously set off on a trip. I told myself I was going to drive south until I got hungry. For once in the entirety of my life, my thoughts were not racing. I just had one and it wouldn't leave me alone. 

My phone rang and I saw 164, my affectionate nickname for him, across the screen. A glimmer of hope! Maybe he could tell me this was all a nightmare, but it wasn't, and he didn't. 

He told me what happened when he got home, he asked if I was okay, and he told me that we couldn't ever talk again. Not unreasonable or particularly surprising news but still it swiftly delivered a punch to my stomach. He said "okay, well... I guess I should go..." It took everything in me not to tell him that I loved him. He apologized again and hesitated for a moment... Then... Goodbye and the line was dead. I cried for four long hours, and reminded myself of his begging wet eyes.  It was all I could do to keep my car on the road. 

Before I was hungry, I was in Maryland and the void in me was enormous. I wasn't sure I could distinguish it from hunger but I stopped driving anyway. 

Though it kills me, I'm not sure I regret it. I know other people were hurt, and for that reason I wish I was less selfish, but I don't wish that it never happened. His love filled me up and consumed me. I felt perfect for a short while. 

Now, there are 164 lines in the sand and I don't think I have the energy or audacity to try to cross any of them. I'll just try to let him live and try to diverge from the path we walked together...

There are many more details, and things I left out, but he bought me the pens with which I wrote this. He knew they were my favorite. I am terrified of ever letting the last one run out of ink, so for now, this is where the story ends...