INVISIBLE EXES

you: I wrote you an email.

your ex: When? 

you: Two nights ago.

your ex: I never got an email.

you: I didn't send it. Aren't you proud of me?

your ex: Why would I be proud of you?

you: For finding a healthy way to express my emotions without imposing on you.

your ex: Needing my approval for leaving me alone undermines the idea of leaving me alone.

you: Can I just have the approval anyway? Please?

your ex: How long did this email take you to write?

you: Twenty minutes. Give or take.

your ex: I've seen you spend an hour on a two line email to your boss asking to leave work early for a doctor's appointment.  

you: Fine. It took me four hours...

your ex: ...

you: ...per night. Over the course of three nights.

your ex: That's the obsessive lunatic I remember leaving. 

you: Wanna hear it?

your ex: I thought the point was writing it to get your feelings out.

you: It was.

your ex: So you've written it, shouldn't you forget about it now? 

you: But it's a masterpiece.

your ex: Jesus.

you: Just listen.

you clear your throat.

you: I miss you. I miss your smile. I miss waking up next to you. I miss running my hand through your hair and the way you smell --

your ex: So you're not into the slow build.

you: -- I miss the way we used to rub our feet together under the covers on cold nights. I miss the way you looked at me across the room at parties when we were trapped in separate conversations. I miss your eyes and your nose and the freckle halfway up your right thigh. I still see you when I close my eyes.

your ex: I know. That's what these conversations are.

you: SHUT UP FOR A SECOND.

your ex is shocked into silence.

you: I still see you when I close my eyes. But I can't hold you anymore...I regret not holding you more.  I regret all the nights we sat watching TV and not talking. I regret taking you for granted.  I regret not surprising you with flowers more. I regret not going on vacation to the Caribbean because the plane tickets were too expensive. I regret that fight at my cousin's wedding. And the fight about the brussel sprouts. And the fight at my other cousin's wedding. I regret all the fights. None of them were worth it. Our time was too precious. Which is easy to recognize now that it's run out. You are the best person I've ever known. Just having you at my side made me stronger and smarter and luckier than I had any right to be. I love you with every cell my body. I miss you.

the last few words are barely legible through the tears that are flowing freely now. Then you look at your ex and see they're crying.

 you: Does this mean you miss me too?

your ex blows their nose.

you: And you still love me?!

your ex: Stop --

you: And I should send the email?!?

your ex: Don't send the email.

you: But what if this letter is the thing that penetrates the defenses! Makes you feel all the emotions you're hiding from yourself! The emotions I know are still there!

your ex: How do you know they're still there?

you: I'm gonna send it!

you hit send and, satisfied, walk away to eat an apple. thirty seconds later, you are back in front of your computer, compulsively hitting the refresh button on your inbox. relief is swallowed by panic as you begin to consider the real-life circumstances under which your ex will read this letter and your back hunches over in imperceptible little increments until you are fully prone before the smudged screen of your laptop, a position from which you will not move for a day, a week, a month, waiting for the response that never arrives. 

you: I wish it were Monday. 

your ex: What happens on Monday? 

you: I go to work.

your ex: Did you get promoted?

you: No.

your ex: Did you get a job at Google?

you: No.

your ex: Did you inherit a magical chocolate factory staffed by sexy oompa loompas?

you: I have the same mediocre job I've had for two years.

your ex: Then what the hell is your problem?

you: Weekends have become a lifeless desert hellscape that I'm forced to cross two out of every seven days. I don't care for them.

your ex: And here I was thinking that you'd hit the limit of being a joyless piece of shit. 

you: I'm not making this up. Why do you think Saturday is called Saturday?

your ex: I don't know.

you: Saturday. Sadderday. SADDER DAY.

your ex: Clever. What about Sunday?

you: ....

your ex: Nice try though.

you: I used to look forward to the weekends ya know. Sleepovers and no homework. Parties. Bars. Getting drunk and taking drugs and hanging out with my friends. Eating food at three in the morning. 

your ex: So what? This is about me?

you: All these conversations are about you.

your ex: How I not only ruined your life, but your weekends too?

you: You changed my weekends. 

your ex: I didn't realize you'd never had brunch before we met.

you: I'd had brunch.

your ex: Then what exactly am I being blamed for?

you: Not until you did weekends become this adult thing with hikes and double dates, staying in to watch The Wire and do the stupid fucking crossword puzzle.

your ex: You wouldn't hate the crossword if you weren't so bad at it.

you: Who cares about some goddamn Danish architect Eero Saarinen?

your ex: Finnish architect. 

you: All of those dumb vikings can go fuck themselves. 

your ex: I don't understand why you're so bitter. You're free to do whatever you want now. Go to bars and parties and take drugs until your brain melts. Eat disgusting tacos at three in the morning. 

you: I tried. Bars are too loud and crowded. Hangovers last longer. The drugs make me paranoid and tacos give me indigestion. 

your ex: It's a shame your body and I gave up on you at the same time.  

you: It doesn't even matter. The whole point of going out is to try to find someone to have sex with.

your ex: Here it comes...

you: But I only want to have sex with you. 

your ex: That's. Not. Happening. 

you: Just explain one more time why it would be so inappropriate.

your ex: Anyway. If you no longer like the way you used to spend weekends, and you don't like the way we spent our weekends -- 

you: I do like the way we spent our weekends!

your ex: The grass is always greener, isn't it?

you: The grass is dead and brown in all directions. 

your ex: So what do you do now between Friday night and Monday morning? Just sit in your house, depressed, touching yourself? 

you: Not exclusively. I also do lots of third wheeling, fifth wheeling. I create imbalanced dinner reservations since tables at restaurants are always set for even numbers AKA couples. I field questions from these couples who want to know how I'm faring and if I've talked to you as they try to mask the pity in their eyes, which surely comes out on the private car rides home where they lament me and my state of aloneness in reflexive displays of concern that make them feel both magnanimous and congratulatory about their own relationships.

your ex: You and I used to do that.

you: Well it's all coming home to roost now.

your ex: Why don't you go see a movie or something?

you: I don't like going to the movies alone.

your ex: You sit in the dark in silence. No one knows or cares that you're alone.

you: I feel self-conscious during the previews.

your ex: Why don't you go see a concert? 

you: Do you know who goes to concerts? People in love. They nuzzle their necks into each other and dance like idiots while basking in the good vibes of the music and their  meaningful relationships.

your ex: Jesus. Go on a date then. 

you: Pass.

your ex: Then I give up. 

you: The only possible solution I've come up with --

your ex: Don't say jump off a bridge.

you: I wasn't.

your ex: Good.

you: I was gonna say I should adopt a child.

your ex: ....

you: It makes sense. I think it's why a lot of people have kids. Weekends suddenly have purpose and structure --

your ex: You want to adopt a kid so your weekends have structure?

you: That and the unconditional love I'll get.

you: I'm thinking about starting a blog.

your ex: How lonely are you?

you: I'm not lonely.

your ex: So you're lonely and in denial.

you: Leave me alone.  

your ex: Even though I'm not actually here?

you: That's right.

your ex: So you're lonely, in denial, and schizophrenic.

you: Maybe. A little. 

your ex: Admitting you have a problem is the first step.

you: And starting this blog is the second step.

your ex: I'm pretty sure that's not the second step. 

you: But if I start writing this stuff down, it might stop plaguing my every waking moment.

your ex: What plagues your every waking moment?

you: You ask a lot of questions for someone inside my own head.

your ex: Because you get off on answering them.

you: I really don't. That's what I want to stop. These awful conversations. 

your ex: So you're gonna put them on the internet.

you: That's right.

your ex: And who, pray, is going to take time out of the day to read this indulgent, self-pitying garbage?

you: I don't know. Other people who've had their hearts smashed to smithereens.

your ex: You mean everyone.

you: Not everyone. 

your ex: Yes. Every single person in the world has had their heart broken by the end of something or someone. You're just handling it like a more of a bitch than most people.

you: I'm sorry I feel the full weight of my emotions.

your ex: I'm sorry you're such a bitch.

you: Well maybe putting my pain out there will help ease someone else's suffering. 

your ex: Maybe. And maybe that person will reach out to you to express their gratitude. And maybe you, due to your loneliness, will respond. Maybe start a correspondence. Casual at first. But as your ongoing sadness (prolonged by the creation of this blog, which will encourage your fixation and prevent you from moving on in a healthy way) causes the real people in your life to run out of patience and sever their already tenuous connection with you, your virtual relationship will get more intense. You'll start emailing every day; sending pictures; sharing deep, dark secrets that aren't already inappropriately public on your blog. Until one day this person might become your online lover. You'll refuse to meet face to face -- a wise decision. By then, you'll have neglected your physical appearance for far too long and your interpersonal skills will have moldered into ash. But don't worry. The pictures will sustain you sexually. Two years might pass. And then one day, maybe those guys from Catfish will show up at your house to explain to you and whoever still watches MTV that you've been dating a 78 year old transgendered mass murderer who's been locked up for three decades. And what might be most surprising is not this revelation, nor all the lies. No. The surprising thing might be that, at the heart of it all, the bond you and this monster share is deep and true and undeniable. 

your ex: OK cupid, huh?

you: What do you mean, "huh"?

your ex: Nothing.

you: Because the taboo is gone.

your ex: No need to get defensive.

you: Everyone is on it.

your ex: Hey. Relax. 

you: Maybe if you stopped judging me.

your ex: I'm not judging you...so, what age range did you put in? 

you: 18 to 52. 

your ex: Huh...

you: See! You're judging!

your ex: Well you're casting a pretty wide net.

you: It's a big ocean--

your ex: Is that really the profile picture you're going to use?

you: What's wrong with this picture?

your ex: Besides that it's an old picture of us that you're cropping me out of in order to find new romantic prospects?

you: It's one of the only pictures I have of myself where I'm smiling.

your ex: I must've made you pretty happy.

you: You did. 

your ex: Too bad I'm gone now.

you: What the fuck do you think I'm doing on this website?!?

your ex: Did you ever think that I might be on ok cupid? 

you: Are you?

your ex: Search and find out.

you: What would your profile name be...

your ex: Try Soulcrusher69.

you search for soulcrusher69.

you: No such profile exists.

your ex: Weird. Keep searching.

50 - 70 minutes later.... You have sifted through hundreds of profiles. Your eyes burn. You feel vaguely nauseous. And you still haven't found your ex.

your ex: Guess I'm not on it.

you: I wish you'd told me an hour ago.

your ex: Did you really think I'd be on ok cupid?

you: You mean you're on match instead?

your ex: No.

you: Jdate?

your ex: No.

you: Christianmingle?

your ex: I'm not on any dating sites.

you: Why? You think you're too good for dating sites?

your ex: Yes.

you: Oh.

your ex: Plus I'm hooking up with so many people it'd be redundant.

you: Oh.

your ex: Plus the idea of digitally browsing for potential lovers like I'm shopping for discount running shoes on zappos isn't really very appealing. Especially when everything I've ever bought on zappos is on sale for a reason, either the shoes are defective or they don't fit or the colors look weird in person, none of which I realize until after sending my credit card information out into the internet so that hackers have yet another chance to steal my identity, before I wait the five to seven days for the shoes to arrive, at which point I put them on and walk around my house for twenty minutes, the entire time trying to fight my more honest self and the inescapable knowledge that I'm not going keeping these hideous and uncomfortable shoes just because I don't have the energy to drive to office depot to buy packing tape so I can reseal the box and then print out a return shipping label--at work, because who owns a printer anymore--and the whole thing would've been easier if I'd just gone to a shoe store. 

you: Jesus.

your ex: But if you want to be a part of this online meat market, go ahead.

you: I mean...how is it any different from going to a bar and sizing up everyone there?

your ex: I don't meet people at bars.

you: Whatever. At parties.

your ex: You think I meet people at parties?

you: We met at a party.

your ex: And look how that turned out.

you: So what do you these days? Just fuck strangers you meet on the subway? 

your ex: I'm not shackled by crippling self-consciousness like you. I go out into the world and engage with people. I feel sparks and serendipity and romance.

you: Romantic love is an invention of the 20th century. 

your ex: OK, college sophomore.

you: At least I read books. 

your ex: I read books.

you: I bought you Slaughterhouse Five on our third date and two and half years later you were on page 46.

your ex: That book was boring.

you: Excuse me?

your ex: You want to have this fight again?

you: It's not a fight.

your ex: Really? So I can tell that the guy who wrote it--

you: Kurt Vonnegut?

your ex: Whatever his name is.

you: His name is Kurt Vonnegut. 

your ex: I can tell you that Kurt Vonnegut is overrated and not that funny and you're not going to get angry?

you: ...

your ex: That's what I thought. 

you: See, this is why I signed up for OK Cupid. So I can find out beforehand if someone has awful taste and then I don't have to waste thousands of hours trying to reveal beautiful wondrous treasures to a philistine. 

your ex: You're right. You should only date someone who's into all the same bullshit as you, that way you don't have to expand your horizons --

you: Says the person who doesn't read books.

your ex: -- and you and your bookworm lover can sit together in your shitty lumpy double bed reading books to each other every night as the world passes you by and you have gross passionless sex, your atrophied bodies rubbing against one another, until you produce infirm little bookworm children who are guaranteed to get the shit beaten out of them by the kids of people like me, people who didn't meet on the internet. 

your ex: Great running into you at dinner last night.

you: Nope.

your ex: Really? You weren't excited to see me?

you: I mean...

your ex: Come on. I looked pretty good.

you: You looked amazing.

your ex: Thanks. You looked sweaty.

you: Was it obvious?

your ex: The big swampy pools under your armpits? No.

you: Excuse me for getting nervous.

your ex: Why were you nervous? 

you: Because I'm not like you. I don't know how to act like I have alzheimers and pretend you're a random stranger now. 

your ex: I wasn't pretending. You are a weird stranger to me now. 

you: I said random, not weird.

your ex: I know.

you: But we were best friends.

your ex: Not counting my best friends from childhood.

you: We told each other everything.

your ex: I lied. Often.

you: WE USED TO PUT OUR GENITALS INSIDE OF EACH OTHER.

your ex: Never my favorite activity.

you: Really?! Because you made a lot of crazy fucking noises that suggested otherwise.

your ex: See two comments above.

you: See you in hell.

your ex: ...

you: Of all the restaurants in this city, why'd you have to go to Angelini?

your ex: Because Angelini is delicious.

you: I showed you Angelini.

your ex: So it's off limits to me now?

you: That's goddman right. 

your ex: You're gonna stay away from all the places I showed you?

you: You didn't show me anything. What'd you show me? 

your ex: Your favorite movie theater. Your favorite bakery. Your dermatologist. 

you: Those things are ruined for me.

your ex: The dermatologist is ruined for you?

you: I'd rather get skin cancer than give you the satisfaction.

your ex: The satisfaction of what? 

you: Stop badgering me. 

your ex: Look on the bright side. At least you didn't see me on a date...

you: You look on the bright side. I would've stabbed you with a fork.

your ex: ...because I was on a date the night before. And I'm on a date right now. 

you: Have fun getting chlamydia.

your ex: Have fun being celibate for the next six years.

you: ...

your ex: ...

you: Do you have a date tomorrow?

your ex: Why?

you: Maybe we could go on a date.

your ex: Oh jesus.

you: What?

your ex: Just because we ran into each other doesn't mean I want to start seeing you on purpose.

you: Not even a little?

your ex: Do you have any dignity?

you: You took it with you when you left.

your ex: Well I don't intend on meeting up with you to give it back.

you: This is gonna set me back like two months, isn't it?

you: Everything reminds me of you.

your ex: What is that? 

you: What's what?

your ex: Um. The giant phallic thing on your bed?

you: That's my new body pillow. 

your ex: Body pillow? 

you: It's a pillow for my whole body.

your ex: That's called a mattress.

you: Just -- look.

you lie down on your side, intimately wrapping your arms and legs around the pillow. 

your ex: ...

you: What?

your ex: You look a desperate koala. 

you: I don't care. It makes me feel safe. 

your ex: Replacing me with a five foot sack of stuffed cotton makes you feel safe?

you: This sack of cotton doesn't judge me like you did. 

your ex: That's because the sack of cotton doesn't have ears to listen to your ceaseless bitching. 

you: The sack of cotton doesn't behave in an emotionally-deaf, constantly disappointing way that warrants occasional bitching.

your ex: Because it's a SACK OF COTTON.

you: Whatever. I know you secretly miss sleeping next to me. 

your ex: You mean waking up at 4 am to night terrors and the sound of grinding teeth and the feeling that I'm about to fall off the bed because you've rolled on top of me again and the only thing that's keeping me in place is my arm, which sits pinned under the weight of your snoring body?

you: Excuse me for cuddling. 

your ex: That's not cuddling. That's smothering. 

you: Like you'd know the difference. You have no heart. You're like one of those wire monkey mothers. 

your ex: Uh. What?

you: You know what I'm talking about.

your ex: Actually, this whole thing's taking place in your head and I still have no idea what you're talking about. 

you: It's a famous experiment. A bunch of baby monkeys were taken from their mothers then given the choice between two surrogates: one made out of wire that was rough and cold but that held a bottle of food. And another with no food but that was soft and made out of cloth and made the baby monkeys feel nice. 

your ex: So you don't care about food?

you: No.

your ex: What about all those fancy dinners you made me buy you --

you: They all chose the soft one, OK?!!  

your ex: Great. So you're as evolved as an orphaned baby monkey.

you: You're missing the point.

your ex: What's the point?

you: That every living creature but you likes to cuddle. It's a basic need. 

your ex: Speaking of basic needs, how long do you think before you tape a picture of my face to this body pillow thing and try to...you know...

you: Fuck you. 

your ex: No. Fuck the pillow. 

your alarm goes off.

grudgingly, you sit up in bed, reach for your phone.

you have no missed calls, no texts, and one email -- it's from greenpeace, despite the fact that you have unsubscribed from their mailing list half a dozen times. They want a $5 donation to help little baby lemurs threatened by deforestation in Brazil.

you slump back onto you pillow.

you: One day I'm going to wake up and I'm not gonna reach for my phone. My first thought's gonna be about something other than you. Breakfast. Some weird dream. A shower.

your ex: And on that day, I will contact you.

you: NO.

your ex: Yes.

you: But how will you know?

you: I started seeing a therapist.

your ex raises an eyebrow. 

you: It's a safe place to share my feelings.

your ex: Because you're paying someone.

you: A place where I'm not judged.

your ex: I bet you're spending more money on me now than you did when we were together.

you: See. This is what I mean. 

your ex: So what? You sit in there talking about how horrible I was to you? How I didn't validate your emotions or listen?

you: Some --

your ex: How I walked all over you and ruined your life?

you: My life isn't ruined.

your ex: It looks like a pile of smoldering rubble from here. 

you: That's not true.

your ex: Razed buildings. Little fires everywhere. Air thick with ash. The little citizens of your mind running around, crying, screaming nonsense. 

you: Look. You can't destroy my whole life because you're not responsible for my happiness. 

your ex: Who is?

you: I AM.

your ex: But you're damaged goods. 

you: I'm working through my problems. And I won't put up with this. I deserve your respect, the respect of others and most of all, the respect of myself. 

your ex: It sounds like you're making a lot of progress.

you: I am. 

your ex: What does the therapist say about these conversations we have in your head?

you: ...

your ex: Hello?

your ex: Nothing like standing curbside at the airport watching happy couples reunite. 

you: ...

your ex: Who's picking you up?

you: Uber.

your ex: Uber?

you: Yes. UBER.

your ex: How depressing for you.

you: Too bad I can't cash in on any of the five times I drove you to and from the airport in the last two months of our relationship. 

your ex: You should only take uber to the airport. Never have them pick you up.

you: Dropped you off at four in the morning. Picked you up at midnight.  

your ex: They won't be here for another 35 minutes. You're gonna have to watch a lot more people kissing.

you: Maybe if I'd been more perceptive, I might've realized you were doing a bunch of test runs before leaving for good. 

your ex: So...where'd you go?

you: To visit my college friends. We went to the beach.

your ex: The old gang out on the prowl?

you: They're all in relationships now.

your ex: Well that's nice to hear. It's a natural stage of life. They're making progress. 

you: I thought I was making progress until you --

your ex: You weren't ready. That was the point. 

you: They were all complaining the whole time about being tied down....I wish I could complain about being tied down. 

your ex: So I assume you didn't take advantage of your newfound freedom.

you: Almost.

your ex: What does that mean? You kissed someone? You got to second base? 

you: We were in a bar. I almost talked someone. But then I didn't. 

your ex: Well at least you're still in one piece. Most domesticated animals get torn limb from limb when they're reintroduced to the wild. 

you: I did get extremely drunk and do lots of drugs, which helped me not think about you.

your ex: ...

you: That much. 

your ex: ...

you: My friends took away my phone so I couldn't call you. 

your ex: Did they give you one of those speeches about how they're doing you a favor? How it's better to just tear off the band aid and don't worry this too shall pass and you won't be alone forever?

you: Maybe.

your ex: With really pitying voices that made you feel even more worthless?

you: My friends care about me.

your ex: A thousand friends can't replace the intimacy we shared.

you: Then why did you leave?!???

your ex: They can't replace the intimacy for you. I've already had sex with a battery of attractive strangers and those sappy feelings got neutralized pretty quick. 

you: HEY GOOD FOR YOU.

your ex: It was.

you: GREAT.

your ex: It was.

you: THIS IS NOT COOL.

your ex: ok. Relax.

you: ...

your ex: ...

you: So like now what am I supposed to do? I'm back in town. I have nothing to look forward to. All my problems are still here waiting for me. I had to sit next to this lady on the plane who was spilling over into my seat seat, coughing up a lung, in between which she wouldn't stop talking at me despite the fact that I had fucking headphones on. I'm pretty sure I'm about to get typhoid and spend the next week isolated in my apartment with nothing but a crushing thunderous silence and no one to bring me chicken noodle soup.