A bunch of shit about some boats

The only way through this, in writing at least, is to romanticize it. It’s what I did with the entire relationship, and the gimmick mostly worked. You thought we had a great love story, and so do I. It was pretty great, most of it. It was all deeply dramatic and amplified, which was OK, until it wasn’t. And we kept the flair contained – it played out nightly in the various bedrooms we lived in. (The bunk beds, next to the church bells. The basement, next to the Goodyear. The bedroom we never decorated, next to all that construction. And briefly, here: the house, next to the college, the one we danced in on the first day we moved in, saying, “We’re going to be so happy here—–.”)

Despite all the love – all that love! basins of it! – we were, as they say, bad for each other. We brought out, as they say, the worst in each other. The very, very worst. It was a very unbalanced tragedy: there was no one to root for. No protagonists. Just two very young, very stupid, very bored and careless villains. I can’t imagine a more boring play. No, that’s wrong, it was interesting. We were interesting. It was all completely interesting and complicated, but in the end, when we realized how stupid we were, it was too late. Damage done!

It’s easy to dismiss it like this, of course. It – I can’t even give it a name. It – the relationship – us! You and me. Now there is: you. Me.

I used to be this way: when I needed my life to change, I caused disaster. Who knows why. Lots of Sweet Valley High books as a kid, maybe. I didn’t know how to make the change without being a total nutcase. Once, when I was 20, I guess I wanted a change, so I jumped straight into Chris like a suicide off a bridge. The chaos! I didn’t expect anything to work out. He was my vessel, you know? The way out.

But something happened, of course. I surprised myself and everyone around me by falling in love, and staying there, and staying there, and STAYING there. For years, we stayed there. We stay there now. But if I was the jumper and he was the lifeboat, you have to know we never made it back to land. He caught me, we paddled, we enjoyed the sun and the fish, but we got too far out. So we – you know – sunk. We did not starve. We didn’t get eaten by sharks. The boat wasn’t made for long-ass cruises. So it broke. And we sunk.

Not so romantic, I guess. But a little: today, I called him without thinking to bitch about my bad afternoon. I was driving somewhere. I got lost. I told him where I was going. He said, “Oh, that’s right over by the seafood store you’ve always wanted to go to.” Small detail! But who else knows these things about me? For so long, it was just him and me. Really, just him and me. No room for anyone else. We were out on the boat for a long, long time. Sometimes I think we’re still out there. Hard to say! Who can say! Still hurts, all the same.

Posted by: Zosia | 07-07-2008 | 07:07 PM
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