My mom and I were meant to go shoe shopping this Wednesday. Instead, I found myself walking down La Gran Via alongside an old high school friend. It was getting late and I was rambling like I am known to do when I’m with him and, really, with almost no one else - poor guy, has to stand me.
I told him that the shoes I was meant to be buying were for a wedding, and so we began talking about just that: weddings, honeymoons, how we wanted our owns to play out. I described to him a small beachside nuptials, then a Buddist temple tour around Japan. He described to me a personal backyard ceremony and getting lost in the Vancouver woods.
It’s really no wonder that he ended up asking about my real-life relationships. Poor guy, that’s the one topic you should never bring up with me. Nothing will ruin a night quite like hearing me talk about the man who told me he loved me via text, then went radio silent and got a girlfriend while I was abroad; the man I chased to another country and was surprised to discover that he’d moved on; the man who broke my heart outside a pub just two weeks ago.
Poor guy, he was trying so bad to keep up with my disjointed ranting - asking questions, offering advice, psychoanalysing me. “What I’m gathering from this is that you’ve met some pretty shitty men in your life.” I nodded. “But it also feels like you keep chasing guys who don't like you very much,” he continued, “which forces you to put yourself down to be with them, and then you end up getting hurt. Dating shouldn’t hurt, you know? It should be fun. It should be simple.”
I didn’t really know what to say to all that. Part of me felt a little naked, a little too seen for comfort. Another wanted to scoff, to assure him that I’d figured out everything he’d deduced about me years ago: of course I put myself down when it comes to men. How couldn’t I? Has he never seen Nanette? But in the end I just hung onto those last couple words, the easiest for me to grasp, like dangling off the edge of a cliff and saying:
“Fun and simple... That would be nice.”
I changed the topic after that, asking him where he’d move after that idyllic Canada honeymoon. What kind of house he’d have. What his job would be. How many kids he wanted. Little by little we handpicked our futures: they were joyful, and simple, and completely imaginary.
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