From the archives

Liberating an old work

At first, we argued about the important things. How we’d spend our summer or whether or not I’d accept an offer to study in Jakarta for a year. You’d run at me with your arms out and tears in your eyes and we’d sit down and talk it out. Sometimes I wanted to make you feel better, other times I was the one with the butterflies. “It’ll all work out in the end” I’d tell myself.

What I didn’t recognize was that with every compromise, I was wearing away the essence of our relationship. I didn’t date you because you made me comfortable or because I needed somebody to take care of me; I dated you because of your… je ne sais quoi.

You, when I first laid eyes: one hand in pocket, the other clutching a half empty bag of fuzzy peaches; dressed like an ever so slightly conservative punk — too rebellious for the nerds and too intellectual for anybody else; wearing this devil may care smile as a generous fuck you to anybody who would question your style. That was the woman I fell in love with.

Now I find myself in shambles as we argue about what gifts we’re getting each other and what we’re going to have for dinner on date night. An argument so remarkably benal that I find myself slipping into a lull every time I think about it.