“But I really like making you sandwiches,” I whimper. The Man says he doesn’t believe catering to him will make me happy. He wants autonomy, not a pet.
I’ve just stepped, catlike, out of the shower, in his short-term Los Angeles rental where I have been half-living since day three of our meeting, three months ago. He is in a rush to get to work — and away from me.
While brushing his teeth, he tells me it’s over. His parting words: “And wipe your face!”
Stunned, I make a circle in the foggy mirror and see a strand of white snot hanging from my nose. I am a loser.
One week later, I was gently informed by a friend that The Man had already moved on. To someone famous. A-list famous. Before I could catch my breath, it was headline news. On TV, on my phone, even in a magazine in the grocery store checkout line — there they were, “canoodling.”
I spent the rest of that week slumping around, blubbering. Unable to eat. Heart crushed. Ego obliterated. Shame spiraling after seeing myself through the harsh light of his baby blues. Every unbearable feeling I poured into an epic breakup song, smearing the ink in my notebook with tears.
When his mother emailed me a photo from our recent visit (apparently unaware of his upgrade), my sadness turned to rage.
“I’ll show him,” I thought, narrowing my eyes, steam coming out of my ears. Out loud — so the fairies, the universe, God and my best friend could hear — I proclaimed: “He will see me! He will hear me! He won’t be able to escape me!”
To get back at him — or get him back — I would have to become famous.
