March 1, 2013
One year ago today my partner got in his Prius and left. It was my doing. I didn’t hear from him for six months but followed his Visa charges from Southern California to New Orleans, to New York, then Mauritius. He came back and moved most of his possessions from one of my garages, gave me a mailing address and left. No word since.
It started with hot sex and a bright mind. My ten years of patience that included monthly trips to Chicago for four, was rewarded with withdrawal and depression. The good memories are there, and some day, they’ll come back peacefully, but now, every time I pass Golden Gate Park I’m reminded of patiently driving miles as far as Fort Funston to walk the dogs when he could have gone half a block to Alamo Square. The dogs’ barking reminds me they never got early training because he did it his way. I avoid old recipes because they remind me of him not liking what I cooked after proclaiming, “I’ll eat anything.”
Sex brought us together, and it was over and done within the first year after he moved to San Francisco; he wasn’t seeing others, and our social life consisted of sitting next to each other on the bed after dinner watching Jeopardy. I initiated conversations about herpetology and Beethoven, his specialties, but his only comment on a piece I’d worked hours on was, “Nice.” Then he complained we never talked.
I’ll probably never eat a baked turkey drumstick without thinking of him, but I can park in the garage without moving his car so he could get out in the morning even though he never had a job. What I want gone is being judged. My gifts were intrusions and my interests trivial. Nothing like stone cold but polite silence to kill joy. And mostly I want to never hear his objections to my suggestions.
My saving grace is a man. He found me, and we have connected in that profound way that underlies true friendship. OK, the sex is phenomenal, too.
2013: This year will be clear with him a dissolving, unpleasant memory.