This Goodbye is Forever

My first big love got married. I’m going through so many fucking emotions right now. I don’t know how to deal with them. I’m either drinking or sleeping. Drinking currently, obviously.

I’d be happy if he was with someone he loved, but a guy doesn’t fly to Baltimore to see his ex for shits and giggles. I think he wanted me to tell him to stay. 

I slept with him. Not fucked. Just slept next to him. Jet lag is a killer. I remembered his smell; it was the same. I held back the tears. I knew it would be the last time. I didn’t want to ruin it.

Do you love me?

Of course. Always.

Can you say it…?

I’ll love you for always.

I drove him back to the airport and then laid in my bed, holding the pillow his head had rested on and breathing in his scent. It was the only thing that really proved he had actually been there.

I slept on the sofa that night.

And then I washed my sheets in the morning.

I’m numb. Jameson’s, my sweet James… You won’t marry Jose Cuervo, will you? He probably will. That’s how my life has always played out. Even my booze can’t stay.

I need to drink more. I’m starting to think of the house, the children, the love, the life I could’ve had with him. All gone. Fortunately I took a minor to the liquor store, and, honestly, who shops better for cheap booze that’ll fuck me up? The owner, a Korean man I call Uncle, gave us a free bottle of Absolut. 

Thank god. 

It’s the little things…right?

Goodbye, Seamus.

Wedding Call

I hate getting phone calls from odd country codes. It’s always bad news from a far away place.

Lassie Lynn, do you love me?

This a trick question?

No.

I mean… I gueeeess~ Hahaha!

Do you love me enough to let me go?

Is everything all right?

I think I’m getting married.

Oh, wow… That’s great. Congratulations.

…So you’re okay with that?

…Sounds like you’re asking for my permission.

He told me his girlfriend of a year and a half was pressuring him for marriage. She said it wasn’t right for him to “play with her” if he had no intention of wifeing her. Seamus is about as steadfast and assertive as they come; they don’t make ’em like that anymore. I blame the feminazis for squashing the male-dominance gene out of our progeny; fortunately they haven’t gotten to everyone… But if there was a topic to crush Seamus into submission, it would probably be marriage. Something about sacraments, vows of unending love, honesty before God and your soul mate. Dude gets intense when he talks about spending the rest of his life with someone. I guess the Catholics do a few things right.

I feel he wanted me to say I didn’t want him to marry. I think he wanted me to tell him that I’d die without him; that he belonged to me and I to him. I mean, if we’re going by time as the gold standard, six years – even if it was on and off – is certainly a longer time to be with someone than a year and some change.

But I think we both know that boat sailed off towards the horizon a long time ago.

You have to do what’s right by you, Seamus O’Hare; no one else will do it.

You always did.

What the fuck. Stop.

I have to go to class now. Congratulations again. Send me an invitation. It’ll be the first wedding I attend.

You know, I love you. I’ll still love you even after… all of this happens.

What if I get a bowl cut?

I hung up. I didn’t need to hear his answer. I knew what it would be. I’m pretty much Han Solo.

Flowers

The first time I received a bouquet of flowers from a boy, I was 19 years old.

Seamus got them for me… from a Korean funeral home.

I’m pretty sure everyone knew he wasn’t family of the deceased, but I don’t think they were going to stop a 6’4″ Irishman in a kilt carrying a set of darts.

He wasn’t even drunk.

It’s the little things

Seamus. Seamus O’Hare. How I loved you. That’s a lie. I still love you. If I made a list of the people who’d weep when I die, you’d be on it.

The first man to say he loves me.

That’s a big one, but I remember all the little things too. They’re somehow just as important as the I love you’s.

Your heater broke and we had to sit by the stove to keep warm. We moved your mattress next to the hot metal. You held me close because I was afraid of rolling into the flames while we slept. My protector.

We painted your landlord’s apartment while he was away. He said he’d pay you. You said you’d split it with me. You paid me in the form of pizza slices and kisses. A better bargain.

You never kissed me in public. You only placed your forehead on mine. It was enough.

My hand belonged in yours. Always. When I came back from university and you had a pretty girlfriend in tow, you squeezed my hand, my fingers lost in your grip. A little thing she didn’t notice.

When she left for home, you put your lips to hers. It looked so strange to see you kissing in the street. A pang of… hurt? Jealousy? She turned a corner, and you put your forehead to mine. This is ours.

He didn’t say he loved me again. But I suppose he didn’t have to.