I had imagined how this would transpire many times on the way to his house after work recently but always ended up with a fake smile and a kiss on his cheek when I reached his door.
It had become very difficult for me not to feel child-like in his presence, waiting for him to tell me what I had done wrong. Whether it was the fact that I left water on the floor in the bathroom after a shower or that I didn't walk my dog for what he deemed as a sufficient amount of time, I simply wasn't doing life right.
He had picked up on the fact that I was someone perpetually jammed into 5th gear we began dating a year ago, and he noted it, but it wasn't until this week that he sent me a picture text of a box of cereal that I had ripped open, leaving the perforated tabs to fend for themselves, no longer able to interlock because of my carelessness. Yes, I agree that it must have been annoying for him to see that I was in such a state of rush that I didn't have time to open a cereal box correctly, but it was just as annoying to come home from a long day at work to his lesson of the day.
Wasn't the man I was meant to be with supposed to laugh at this maniacal aspect of my life, knowing full well that I had a lot on my plate?
I sent him a text as I waited for the light outside his neighborhood to turn green that said, "this is not how I'm built." He's not a woman so he didn't pick up on the fact that this line was stolen from Jerry Maguire, as Dorothy explains to Jerry that she knows he's not actually in love with her and she can't continue to pretend their marriage is real. She admits she's fallen in love with the idea of the relationship more than the relationshp itself.
I often wonder if he knows what love is. He admits he has never heard of unconditional love until I came along and explained the term, secretly hoping he would get the hint. Unconditional; accepting of flaws; understanding of mistakes; love knowing no bounds.
When my doorman called me last night to tell me a package had arrived for me, I knew it was from him. I ran to the elevator hoping he had returned my glasses. Did I also hope that there was at least a Dear John letter explaining that he did love me more than any other woman he's ever been with, did think I was amazing, did try, wished me the best and would never forget me? Perhaps. Did I simultaneously play a scene in my mind of me exiting the elevator to him standing there, tall and handsome as ever, smug smile slightly hidden by his beard, awaiting an embrace from me? Maybe.
What I got was a bag of junk. An old rusted razor that I had left in his shower, an empty box of dog treats that I had bought for his terribly neurotic dog (the apple does not fall far from the tree?), a few of my t-shirts, my glasses and the tiny pebble I had given him after a walk, just for fun.
Without words, he had said too much.
My first reaction was--excuse my french--a giant "fuck you, you fucking awful fucking fucked up asshole!"
However, a wave of calm - a gift from my inner self perhaps - came over me, buying me time to compose myself. I shed only about three and a half tears, laid in the foyer of my apartment with the bag of shit next to me and realized that this could not go on.