“Wow, she’s hot!” my new lesbian colleague said when I showed her a picture of C.
“I know,” I replied. Gulped some more beer, looked out the window. It was a rainy Friday evening. “I miss her.” I drew a sad smile on my face, as she looked at me with a cigarette dangling out of her mouth.
“Aw, come here,” she said, and held me tight. Like if she knew me for years. “You are a good guy, Eduardo. I’m glad I met you.” She was too drunk and overly friendly. But, in my state, I took it at face value. Fuck it.
I biked home, decently intoxicated, as a storm broke loose over Copenhagen. The water streaming down my face disguised some tears. I was thinking about her, C. About the last time I glanced her, last Wednesday evening, as I rushed towards the lakes on my bike. Her big backpack with a green plastic bottle hanging from it in the distance. Her striped t-shirt, her brown hair, her whole. Waiting for the traffic light to change, likely going home. A home I will probably never see again.
Now, I’m sitting on my ugly fucking sofa, in the mess of my apartment. An indie music playlist streams on my Spotify and it makes me cry. We broke up a week ago and these indie songs were the go-to soundtrack of our relationship. As we dined, argued, ate breakfast and fucked; these melodies echoed from the background. Listening to them now is like savoring the life that is no longer. It hurts so sweet.
My mind knows this was the right choice, but my heart won’t hear. I cannot blame it. C is a fucking unicorn, a mythical creature that can’t be really defined. She doesn’t fit any mold, any rational construction. She’s unexpected and familiar. Close and always free. An experience of a lifetime and a person I will -nor can- ever regret having spent my days with.
What do you miss when you miss someone? Is there a right or a wrong, an acceptable depth or forgivable shallowness to it? Because I miss her presence. I have never been so physically nor sexually attracted to somebody as I did with her. Her smell, her taste, the warmth of our nights and mornings in bed, the shapes and textures of her body. Her sense of humor, the wonders of her cooking, her intelligence, her passion, her drive. Our sex. Her quirkiness. Netflix and chilling, devouring some ice cream. Traveling. Hiking. Staring into her eyes, running my hands through her hair. She, walking around the house while brushing her teeth. Holding me from behind when I did the dishes. Beating me every time we worked out together. Outsmarting me more often than not. Pushing me further, from upping my cunnilingus game to changing jobs. And more ice cream.
I discovered so many things about myself, and questioned so many structures in my world. I learnt and grew thanks to her, and I won’t ever be the same. And it’s terrifying looking into the future without her. Before, it was so easy to just lose myself into fucking to numb my pain. Now I’m so uninterested in women and sex that it feels like a fucked up superpower. But, how could I, realistically, go back to the meat market? I doubt I can find someone half as attractive as her. She is beautiful to a whole other level, for she doesn’t fit into the traditional beauty standards, but rather extends and improves them. It feels pretty fucking hopeless, here in the aftermath.
It’s all so fucking sad. It could’ve been us. I hate the way it ended and why it did. And, ironically, how life found a way to bite me in the ass for some stupid comment I made many years ago. My grandfather died on a 31st of August. “No pasó Agosto,” I joked, referring to a Chilean expression that means that, if you survive the winter (“Go past August”), you’ll be fine. My dad’s father didn’t make. Neither did our relationship.