In Hate

I am in hate.

I used to be in love. But I’m done with that now.

It started out so good, too. You wouldn’t believe how good; I mean he was so perfect. He was a looker, you know, the kind my sister says I always go for, though I’m not sure if she’s right about that, and there’s some guys I’ve been with she doesn’t even know about.

But.

Anyway.

This guy.

He was kind of a friend of a friend, and I saw him there are the barbecue, standing over on the porch, talking to Gary – or maybe it was Bob - he had a plate balanced on one arm like a waiter, and he was opening a beer bottle with his teeth. I like a guy with long shaggy hair, and I like a tan, and my sister tells me all my guys are blondes. Well, this one was more of a brunette; but he was brunette with traces of honey, with wavy hair that just about reached his shoulders.

I whispered up close to a friend. “Who’s that?”

“That’s Greg’s friend, I think.”

“Not bad, eh?”

“You’re not going to?”

“I think you know I am.” Because, let’s face it, I’m not the quiet, stay-at-home, wait-for-him-to-come-to-me type. I’m the rock-on-over-and-ask-him-out type.

And so, I did.

#

We had such a lovely first date. He was all gentleman. Opening car doors, pulling out chairs for me, taking my coat – you name it, he was doing it. He was full of explanations for all the food on the menu, where it came from, how it was cooked.

“What? Are you a chef or something?”

“Was.”

“Was?”

“I did that for a while, but then I wanted something different.”

“So now.”

“A ski instructor.”

“Bullshit.”

“No. Really. I’ll show you some day. I’ll take you up there.

#

Someday, so they say, never comes.

Never came.

No snow. No goggles and oversized gloves and ridiculous, expensive ski rental. This skiing trip, it was always in the future, it was always something that was going to happen. Like the shelves he was going to build; and dripping tap he knew how to fix, and the garden he was going to get around to tidying up…

Like the diamond. And the gold band.

He stayed nice. He was all kindness. And the sex… well, we rolled around in the sheets, on the carpet, in the carpark behind McDonalds, in the back of that old rental van… Well, you get the idea. There were little presents, and compliments, and sometimes expressions of love that were transcendent, too surreal, too grandiose to even have real meaning – I love you like nobody has ever loved anybody in the world, now or ever, backwards or forwards….

Yeah, right.

#

The changes were subtle. The slight application of distance; longer work days; a staring off into the wallpaper for no discernible reason. A phone call or two that couldn’t be answered in front of me.

I knew. Oh, of course I knew.

And I retaliated, didn’t I?

You may think this is crazy, what I did: but one night, just after he’d gotten off the phone with his bit on the side, I told him I was going out for a walk. Only it wasn’t a walk. I went into a strobe-lit club, where every body was close to nakedness, and every eye was prowling the dance floor looking for other eyes; a meeting of eyes, of minds, then of bodies. It was easy, of course. I guess I do like blondes.  He was a few years younger, well built; he had a flat around the corner. I could still hear the music of the club as we went at in in his lumpy old bed. I was loud, he was athletic; but there was mould on the walls and a window was broken, light shining in the cracks like pale molten gold.

I snuck out the window in the end and went back to the man I really loved.

#

Yeah, still in love then.

But the feeling wasn’t mutual.

If my defiance-fuck was supposed to make me feel strong, empowered, in-charge, it really wasn’t doing its job. There was no guilt, as such, because I figured I was giving as good as I was getting. Except that I wasn’t, because it’d just been physical with me, just a bit of pay-back. What he had with her, that was different. I could feel his slowly drifting out of my orbit and into hers.  And I didn’t know how to stop it. I didn’t know if I was supposed to confront them, if I was meant to pretend; I was too ashamed to talk to anybody, too afraid to ask for help. Is it something I’m doing or not doing, saying or not saying? What am I missing here?

In the absence of answers, I fell into a holding pattern. Alarm clock, shower, breakfast, teeth-and-hair, work, bus, home, dinner, TV, repeat. I kept that up for months, all the while trying to decide how to play this.

In the end, the decision was made for me.

And I wonder if he did it on purpose, let the time get away from him, knowing, figuring that once it was out there it was out there and we’d have to confront it, we’d have to deal with the truth. Or maybe he just got carried away. But there, right here in my bed, with her head on my pillow. Kinky hair and crooked teeth, with eyes that bordered on violet, that it was easy to see could steal a man’s heart.

“I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“You lying, gutless, wicked, selfish, sleazy piece of crap!”

“Hey…”

“That’s just the beginning of what you are! You’re nothing but a four-inch dick attached to a pair of legs.” I glanced at her, still lying on my pillow, hair fanned, still managing to look somehow magical even with her ink-and-lavender eyes as wide as saucers. “you,” I said, “you seem to still be here.”

“Hey don’t take it out on her.”

“Don’t take it out on your little hussy? You don’t want that? Isn’t that nice, honey, he doesn’t want me to be mean to you? What a stand-up guy, what a thoughtful creature he is.” And before he could open his mouth again: “That’s it! You’re not going to make me put up with this. You don’t get to humiliate me like this. It’s one or the other, baby; me or her; one or the other; so you’d better make up your mind!”

#

I know what you’re thinking. You can see it coming, right?

Of course. He chose her.

And I understand that they’re good together, that they made a real go of it. I suppose a more charitable person might even be happy for them, wish them well, be able to move on from our joint three-year mistake.

Another person. A better person.

#

And look. I don’t know why I do this. I tell myself all the time that I have to stop. It’s not just that this will get me into trouble, it’s also that it’s wrong and creepy, it’s the kind of thing psychos do in movies. But still, I need to know everything about him. I hover above his Facebook page, night and day, watching for a comment, for a change in status, for a clue.

And sometimes I follow the clues up. There’s the mention of a party, of a night out, and it’s easy enough to arrange to be there too. He might come striding across the floor demanding to know what I think I’m playing at. I can glare up at him – he’s nothing if not tall – I can raise my voice to a violently shrill note, telling him that I’ve as much right to be here as he has, that this is a public place, that he doesn’t own this damn bar.

“Oh, you followed me here and you know it!”

“I didn’t follow anybody.””

“You’ve been spying on me.”

“Up yourself a bit, aren’t you?”

“I know you have. You’re a bloody stalker.”

“If you don’t like it, you leave.”

“You know you’ll just follow.”

“No, I won’t.”

But he leaves. And I do.

#

And when I’m not following, I’m calling, or I’m leaving messages, sending emails. I take daily walks, more than daily, and they always go past his house. It’s a public street, I tell him, and I have every right to be on it. It’s a park bench, I tell him, I’m allowed to sit on it, just as much as anybody else.

I think she might be pregnant. I ask him about that.

“You stay away from my fucking family, or so help me…!”

“I hope it looks like you, that’s all…”

#

I don’t know why I do this. Look at me. I’m a 4am drunk, with my hair all over the place, and my lipstick smeared, and my face all salty and sticky with the aftermath of tears. But in a way I love it, don’t I? Even while it ruins me. This kind of purity that comes with obsession, with wanting something so much, with thinking about it unto exhaustion and then beyond. To be so keenly focused, so full of this one goal, this one desire. To love so much that it hurts, that just the sight of the loved one is the point of every thought, every decision.

I’m note sure when it turned from love into hate, or even if it did exactly. They’re like a coin, aren’t they? A smiley and a frowny face, over and over, up-down-up-down, smile-frown-smile-frown, and I really don’t know which side is going to land staring upwards. I just watch the coin twinkling in the street light; consumed, ignited, equal parts dead and alive.

I used to be in love.

These days, I’m in hate.

 

Picture credit/discredit: author's own work