I Had a Little “r” Relationship
A romantic idealist reckons with finding — and then losing — Mr. Not-Quite-Right
“I don’t want this,” my boyfriend said to me, stone-faced.
We’d spent five glorious months together, my heart on fire. Then on my birthday, he picked our first fight. I apologized, halfway broken, baffled, in tears, and then told him I loved him, for the first (and only) time. He wished me a happy birthday in return.
He’d leave me for his best friend’s wife a few weeks later.
He didn’t want “this.” He wanted that.
I was crushed, devastated.
A few months later, Trump won the election. Nothing made sense anymore. I could barely eat or get out of bed. That had never happened to me before, nor since.
I foolishly decided dating again might help. November and December saw a double wham-bam of dickheads who couldn’t manage to keep condoms on their dicks. My heartache intensified to despondency, with a side of STD panic.
I had to try something else.
I started New Year’s Day 2017 alone at a favorite cafe, with a perfect oat milk latte, my first dose of Wellbutrin, and a morning-after pill.
