A BROKEN HEART. AND THE AFTERSHOCK.

I have always had a thing for milkshakes. In tall glasses. So, when I first saw Jenny, with her height and all, I was bought. She always knew she had me. Ain’t no doubt about that.
And as she sat before me now, I was still as awestruck as before. Caramel skin, pine tree eyes and blueberry lips, she was a miracle just looking at her. Wineglass figure but milkshake glass height.
“So, what’s your story?” She asked. She’s always asked it. I didn’t wanna tell though. A man is the total of secrets he has in him. And me telling, would make me a lesser Horace than I always had been. “Will you ever tell me or not?”
“I’m thinking.” I lied. I said. I didn’t know the difference.
“Well, you better stop and start talking.”
Maybe she was right.
I had done it again. Left her. Not leave like walk out the door rather leave the room. We were together but we weren’t. Neglect. She’d asked me about it.
Maybe some stories are better told. To avoid further pain. And money spent on drugs.
I once loved someone so fiercely she became the only thing I could think of. If food wasn’t eaten in her presence it was bland… Heck, I loved how high the sky was when she was with me and how the dew dressed the grasses when I woke with her each morning…
“‘Loved’ suggests you separated?” Oh Jenny, always thinking out loud.
“Let me tell my story first love.” Clearly.
I know you’re suffering from or complaining of me neglecting you, but truth be told, I had never been the stick-like-a-postage-stamp kind. She made me do it. (Nas Made Me Do It 😂) She asked me to pour my everything into her cos it was either that or nothing at all (like the Alaine song). And the stupid me did. I gave her my soul. Like Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider) to the devil.
Life was good, right? Right. She was a dame to kill for and I was ready to kill mine.
I don’t think anyone has ever written or sung about the type of love I was in. Even now, as I think about it, five years later, it’s as if she had put a spell on me (Ari Lennox 😂😂😕). You know how you watch a lot of movies from the 80s and shit. Jimmy Dean films. There’s a romantic vibe you get that is non existent in today’s films. That was the type of love we had. Surreal.
The thing about me that people don’t know, is that I am an idealistic lover.
“Idealistic?” Jenny asked.
Like, I am in love with things that normally don’t be there. I like Da Vinci, dead. I like Van Gogh paintings. Dead. I like Beethoven. Dead. I like Bellatrix LeStrange.
“She isn’t even real?!”
Exactly.
The things that appeal to me the most are nearly non-existant.
“Explains a lot of things,” she said in a rather loud whisper.
What?
“Has nobody ever told you that you’re too literal?”
Explain.
“You don’t talk to me and then say, ‘you have the stars in your eyes’ or ‘you are the kind of beauty that lives in books’… How am I to answer to that?”
In my defence-
“No. It was rhetorical.”
Okay. I guess.
“So, why did you break up with Portia?”
Haha. Portia. I liked that.
She fucked some dude.
“so, everybody fucks someone else. It’s okay long as they stick with you, right?”
No.
One fuck is a mistake. You can blame it on sheer luck on his side. But doing it over and over, no.
“And what did you do about it? When she told you that is.”
That’s the gamble. I had seen it happening way before it happened. I had mentioned it as a footnote in a conversation.
“so it wasn’t a surprise.”
The tragedy of being aware of an I’ll before it befalls hurts even more when it comes to pass. That’s why ignorance is bliss. Because it’s better not to have known. It is said, ‘know the truth and the truth will make you mad!’ That’s how it felt. Maddening. And it hurt.
“It doesn’t explain why I feel hurt and neglected,” she said. And was right. To demand for answers.
You know, the thing about being an asshole is that it’s comfortable. And when someone comes along and convinces you to try not being one, and you stupidly tries, you set yourself up for failure. When you’re an asshole, you don’t get hurt, ever. And she’d made me try being a good kid. I got hurt. And when a mouse is hurt and afraid, it retires to its den. I retreated into myself and the only den I was aware of. Assholevile.
“so, you can’t commit yourself to me cos of some old heartbreak?”
Not that simple. I can’t convince myself that you’ll stay.
“well, that’s a bummer.”
I know.
“so, did she eventually tell you?”
Yeah. A few hours after she’d told me she loved me. We’d had a romantic evening. Just the kissing. Not sex. I couldn’t have sex with her.
“couldn’t or she didn’t offer?”
I tried having sex with a chic two days later after we broke up. Or the next evening I think. I’m not sure. It was tragic. I couldn’t get hard. Totally. She left my house angry and with low esteem. She thought she wasn’t good enough for me. I couldn’t tell her it’s because she wasn’t her. So, even if she’d offered sex, I couldn’t fuck my girl knowing some weird dude had his cock and arms around her probably a night before.
“So it destroyed you.”
It broke me.
“Well, a broken mirror still works alright.”
No. I’m a broken wineglass. Rather.
“Cracked is more of the term.”
I was told I use people as band aids for my pain. Maybe to patch up to he cracked parts.
“Shit!”
What?
“That’s sad.”
I didn’t have any real help when her and I split. So, I turned to sex and drugs. Every morning, my fingers smelt either weed or pussy.
“You should have talked to her. Let her know how you felt.”
Yeah. I should. I didn’t see the reason to. She knew she’d hurt me. Talking about it to her wouldn’t have unwound the clock. I asked if she’d do the same thing if time could have been run back. She said she didn’t know.
“That’s fucked up, right?”
It hurt. It meant it wasn’t a mistake.
“I don’t know what to say.”
Jenny. You know, you don’t always have to have the right words.
“It doesn’t give you an excuse to hurt anyone though.”
That’s why I’ve invested so much in selling myself as an asshole. So people have to expect the worse from me.
“well, when they get to meet you, they see you’re nothing but a mushy baby inside. It means you’re easily disarmed. Because you’ve disallowed yourself to be loved.”
Long as I don’t get hurt though, right?
“The loneliness. You think it doesn’t hurt?”
What’s the worse thing that could happen?
“You’ll break your own heart. People underrate loneliness.”
Oh.

P. S. no relations to any living human beings. we are idealistic humans.

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