Testaments - Number Seven

(I'm really excited for today's Testament; it's written by the wonderful author of The Strange Musings of a Distracted Spunk. She discusses how on undefined relationships could be fun at times, yet confusing and painful at others.)

We were more suited to the plot of a romantic comedy than we were to each other.

His name, for starters. Long, tripping off the tongue in a strangely eloquent and slightly Dutch-esque way. Whereas mine is plain and simple. Two syllables, eight letters total. His name would have never sounded right with mine - there were far too many syllables in his last name. It would have been uneven, imbalanced. Much like us, in some ways.

Was it our mutual love for Guster that bonded us? Or perhaps it was the snarky commentary and witty banter that darted the air between us. Or just maybe, it was that elusive drug chemistry that mixed us together, adding a bit of humor here and a bit of good ol' fashioned petting there.

We danced on a boardwalk in the pouring rain. We raced go-karts and had mini golf tournaments. We ate off each other's plates, though usually, he would order something small and wait for me to finish half my plate so he could eat the rest. (It was this very behavior that made me take a picture of a completely clean plate in Scotland - the first time I had ever finished an entire meal by myself without anyone's help. He still doesn't believe me.)

Was it serious? I couldn't honestly answer that. It was fun. Since when is fun so wrong?

One night, after I drove forty minutes through deer infested woods and roads without signs, we sat at the end of his driveway. His mother's flowers surrounded us on either side, and the fat orange cat he hated watched from the window. It was the first time we broached "us." The "what are we doing?" discussion.

I flipped a switch.

I didn't know the switch was there for the flipping. I didn't know that saying, "Do we have to make a decision right now? Let's just enjoy this," would lead to our downfall. One night, we ate cheesecake as he yowled along to "All By Myself" with Bridget Jones. The next night, he was sullen, withdrawn, and I spent more time making excuses for his behavior than I did blatantly ignoring him.

Summer drew to an end. I would freeze in his bed when he pulled away. We never could agree on how cold was too cold. Sometimes, he would ignore my presence completely, eating a bowl of pasta at one end of the table while I nursed a glass of orange juice.

He would invite me to go out with his friends, and flirt with another girl in my presence. But I was the one who went home with him and slept in his bed. Did he ever resent me for that? Did he imagine I was another girl?

Maybe we flipped another switch then. Where it had been romantic and breezy and light - piggy back rides and good-natured jabs at one another became fights. Frustration and irritation. Was it that I wanted to date him? I felt ready to move to another level when the fall semester started. He felt ready to move onto other people.

We would fall into this cycle of "We're not together anymore." But then how was it that I always ended up in his bed? The romance was gone. The comedy was gone. It was a creature of habit, of familiarity and knowing each other's foibles and quirks well enough to put up with them. We had become a character study, a search in motivation and relationships.

The anger was there. The silence was there. I became committed to ignoring him, as well as he ignored me. He decided we would have a small party, just us and our best friends who had started dating. The small party turned into a big party. A girl who irritated me with her lack of personality was planted as his new "interest." Did he actually hold any interest for her? I didn't know.

What I do know was every time he saw me that night, he would purposely put his arms around her. I spent most of that night on a picnic table outside his apartment, stone-cold sober while he and our friends were wild-eyed and wasted. Our friends were just beginning their own romance; drunk and high on alcohol and each other, they tried their best to remember me. "He's a jerk," they said, in between googley-eyes. "He doesn't deserve you, and he's just being plain dumb."

I walked back in for a moment, wanting to use the bathroom. His downstairs bathroom was occupied, so I meandered upstairs. The very same girl he had been trying to make me jealous with called me over. "Can you just watch him for a few minutes?" she asked. "He's really drunk, and he's already thrown up, and I'm afraid he's going to black out."

I hesitated. This was the guy who had spent the night casting looks over his shoulder to make sure I knew he had moved on. This was the guy who knew more things about me than my last boyfriend, and somehow managed to hurt me by withdrawing himself so completely. He was sprawled across the bottom bunk bed, blankets be damned. Harmless, I thought.

So I sat down on the floor next to him. I moved the trash bin closer to the side of his bed. He opened his eyes and saw me there. "No. Not you. Anyone else but you," he said.

If I needed any more conviction that it was over, I had my answer.