Very Single

One thing about having 4 break ups in one year is that while they don't get any more fun, you do get used to them. Sort of. They become the norm, rather than the end of the world. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.

The Born Ruffian and I went for a walk last night: a walk for breaking up. The MYOB version is that we agreed we've become too intimate to date casually, and we agreed that neither of us is ready for something serious.

What do you do with that? Seems like a damn fucking shame to me, for two people to break up because they like each other too much. But there it is, there you go.

I guess what you do do with it is that you take your now ex-date back to your house for tea and pudding, you sit for three hours on your 8' long tweedy couch and argue about whether hippies would have owned it or not. You gossip and share stories. You talk like friends. You both mostly remember not to touch the other person's knee, not tapping it for emphasis nor brushing it lightly for the tingle against your fingerprints, not pressing your warm palm into denim. Not the way you would have two hours ago, before you agreed.

Another thing about having 4 break ups in one year is that your heart gets very very tired.

Enough tired so that even when my bed, at 2 am, looked like a huge pale permanent wasteland in the middle of my room, so that even when, at 2:15, I was leaking tears and staring into lonely, I was also relaxed to be relieved of the quick bird's-heart flutter of my nervous self against the meaty shell of my skin. It was still in there, of course, that nervous self; I don't think I'll ever lose it. But now, hunkered down, its feathers puffed out. Crying, yes, but slow and calm.