Today's writing

Steak tartare doesn’t last. When it turns, it turns quick. There lay my fear: a relationship gone sour, a meal languishing unwanted, uneaten. I was nearly a virgin when we started dating, a veteran of aborted connections based more on moments than milestones. I was 30; he was 26. Our first date wended its way back to my place, where I sat on my threadbare couch and flipped open a slim volume of Pablo Neruda. I didn’t give a damn about love poetry. I was terrified of him putting his hands on my body. He wasn’t subscribing to the fear or anything I did to slow the situation. Instead he took the book, placed it face down on the thirdhand coffee table, and walked me back into the bedroom.

By the time we took our first trip to Europe, love received nicknames. I could try to explain the acronyms, but instead I’ll tell you that I cried in London. Several times I’d visited and still I couldn’t make any sense of the Tube. He, who had never been to Europe, got it on first sight, taking us from Heathrow to Kensington after circumnavigating the city only once on the Circle and District Line. The damn tears started before we even checked in. They were born of competitiveness and jealousy, of wishing I could be like him in certain ways: logical, composed. It hurts to envy the one you love. It is emotional schizophrenia; you cannot block or manage the conflicting voices.