First Love

1989

Once all of my things had been moved back into my parent’s house, she insisted on taking me to a nice restaurant for dinner. I reluctantly agreed. The last several days – no, the last five years – had finally caught up with me. I was beyond hurt, beyond sad. I was close to dead.

She listened intently and compassionately as I spoke of the manipulations and psychological pain. Of how he had lied and cheated. Of how I believed that he really loved me. Of how the final straw was that after he had agreed to an egalitarian cohabitation he said, “Fuck you, Bitch! If you want the dishes done, do them yourself.”

Half way through the meal her demeanor changed. She was suddenly angry. It didn’t add up. I didn’t understand or ask. I continued eating and talking. Oblivious.

The waiter approached the table and asked if we wanted dessert. Very abruptly she said, “No. Check please.” Then to me, “I’m so sorry. I have something to tell you and it’s really bad.” I retorted, half joking, “Really. What could be worse than the fact that I just moved out of my apartment and left my boyfriend of 5 years – the man that I was convinced I was to marry…?”

“He’s here. With a date.”

Infuriated, I sent a glass of wine to their table. The waiter had agreed to point in our direction and tell the woman that it was from me – and that I had, until that very afternoon, shared an address and life with her date.

As the waiter pointed at me, I ephemerally remembered the dishes and knew my choices: to stay with him, marry, be beaten, kill, and go to jail for life or to get the life that I have now.