Sunday, November 13, 2011


"Na" he said. Pushing a large black Mont Blanc paper bag at me without so much as the de riguer niceties. He was almost an hour late, no apologies, no explanations. But this was his SOP, the man I'd dated, the one who proposed and the face I'd addressed as 'Dear' for slightly over 4 months.

An impassive countenance that masked unfathomable thoughts. A face alien in its familiarity.

"Where you wanna go?" he quipped. "Weren't you supposed to have made plans?" I queried, that sinking feeling that often came hard on the heels of one of the many, many lows in our relationship setting in. He had none. "Let's go Orchard." came the monologue. And that was that. It'd always been the case for most of our relationship, him wanting to do something, eat something, watch something at his time, his convenience and of his liking. Inexplicably, I caved most of the time. At the risk of sounding like a corny old romantic, such is the power of love. No other logical reason to explain why an otherwise perfectly rational person (i.e. me) would not have thrown a bitch fit or let him have it as some of the previous ex-es (alas) experienced when they crossed the line.

Tonight was scant difference despite the change in status of the relationship. Apart from the choice of cuisine, everything went according to (his) plan. Dinner venue, dishes ordered, aimless, futile window shopping. Right down to his clockwork smoke breaks. I hated it. Yet I remained an obedient, silent follower to the imposed routine. With nary a thought of protest, a prisoner of my basest, most subliminal emotions. Emotions palpable in intensity, impossible to elucidate yet impossible to ignore. While the seat of reason and thought cries out stridently to abort, reject and terminate. Cries lost in the maelstrom of turbulent sorrow.

While he was at the gents, I sneaked a peak. At the mini complimentary gift card that inevitably accompanies such gifts. "Dear XX" it began.

"Happy Birthday & Best Wishes.

A cold clinical message in small neat italicized handwriting I always found so at odds with his rough, unpolished even halting manner of speech. No 'love YY', no hint of warmth in that greeting, not even a short explanation or thank you message for the 4 months that had flowed past. The message would have fit right in with the perfunctory well wishes one proffers to a superior, albeit an unpopular one.

My heart sank. But why should it? Why expect anything more from a lover turned stranger who had so flippantly cast aside what he once strenuously declared he'd hold on to? Why remain imprisoned by feelings that would be neither acknowledged nor reciprocated? So many questions, so few answers.

Though this much I know, the physical attraction and desire remains strong. That familiar set of his jaw, the boyish visage, the prominent pecs, the swell of his arms, the soft mound of his slight paunch, the shape of his ass, his swagger and smell all couple to form a heady, irresistible cocktail of desire and deep-seated longing. To hug and to hold. Which I guess is not helping the extraction from this emotional quagmire.

I know it's time to move on. I am desperately willing myself to. I know I deserve better. No need for the cries of the many well-wishing friends to reiterate what I already know. Though I am thankful for their support. But knowing and being able to do so are two very different things indeed. Though that is certainly no excuse. Anger may be harnessed in the process, to facilitate a speedy extraction from this quagmire.

But experience has taught this. Anger is an excellent purgative but a poor restorative. The medicine should not kill the patient. I have cause to be angry, I certainly was angry. But anger will not be the salve to soothe the wounds in the long run. I know I have to move on. It's just a matter of finding the strength and right medicine to do so.

A friend once said, the best way to get over a man is to get under another one. Now if only things were that easy.. heh.