My Mr. Brightside

It happened like this…I was wearing a black and white animal print top with a teal belt accent, short black shorts and a terrible orange-pink-ish shade of lipstick (I’m sure I thought it looked good at the time). I walked in to a cocktail bar with over 100 martinis scrawled onto metal menus, excited to be meeting new people in a strange city. Looking back it’s a bit odd that my friend chose to take me to a cocktail bar to mingle with her work friends and her church friends. Possibly it was to make the work friends feel comfortable around the church friends. Or maybe it was a nod to me, since I no longer belonged in either category. I was chatting and laughing obnoxiously in the way that 20 year olds do, no doubt flicking my long black hair around like an insane beauty queen. And then he walked in. He sat across from me and a few seats down, but through the powers of body language, ie. obviously staring, I enticed him over to sit beside me. He was well spoken and charming and quickly wooed my attention away from the rest of the group and it wasn't long until I was leaving my severely unimpressed friend to go off with him and a few others to a questionable nightclub (the same nightclub where I would fall down a flight of stairs a few years later; I still have the scar on my knee).We danced and he drank, because I was new to the bar scene and knew I couldn't hold my liquor. Bodies pressed together, breathing each other’s breath, his cheek brushing up against mine. I was utterly intoxicated. I spent the night in his bed, although we didn't consummate our attraction. As I sat in the taxi on the way back to my friend’s house the next morning, wearing one of his faded polos, I felt strange. I had never had a one-night-stand before, even though most of the night was spent kissing and whispering about nonsense. I was giddy, but ultimately sad that I would most likely never see him again. My friend, on the other hand, was livid with me; this boy had a reputation at work for being somewhat less than honorable and she was disgusted that I too had fallen into the trap. But what could I do? I was recently separated from my 6-month-old marriage and I wanted to experience the life of a normal young adult (whatever that is).

It’s hard to pin down the exact details. A random Facebook message became a frequent occurrence, which led to emails, which led to phone calls, which eventually took me back to visit that western city I did not particularly care for. I remember packing for the trip and wondering if I should bring Q-tips, nervous that a single 20-something boy wouldn't stock his own (I did, and he did). I don’t remember meeting him at the airport, but I do recall the underwear I wore out on our first ‘real’ date that night. After our long weekend together I went back to my city with an Official Boyfriend, though I didn't really have any idea what to do with him.

After adjusting our phone plans to accommodate long distance rates we talked as often as we could. In the semi-darkness of my first apartment that I had on my own, I would close my eyes and focus on the smooth sound of his voice while I tried to reconstruct the feeling of laying in his arms. We fell in love with each other through words. Being away from someone physically forces you to connect with them on another level, and I got to know him in a way I hadn't known anyone else ever before. He listened to my insecurities and my guilt and somehow made me feel accepted again. Although our upbringings couldn't have been more different, we understood each other. Then came the true test of our relationship, his holiday visit – we could talk on the phone for hours but what would it be like spending a week together? Or meeting my family? That Christmas was full of defining moments for us, most pleasant and some not. I was already back at work the afternoon he left, which I thought would make his leaving easier. But as soon as my door clicked shut that evening the tears poured down my face. It feels like I cried for hours, my apartment suddenly feeling like a black hole. His smell still lingered in my sheets and I clutched my pillow as we talked on the phone and told each other “I miss you already”.

Obviously something had to change. It was only a few months later that we decided I should relocate, and live with him. A risky move, but we were young and foolish and hopeless with each other. My worried father dutifully drove me, my clothes and my purple couch across the prairies to my new home. How utterly frightening it must have been for my dad to watch me spring out of the truck before it had even stopped moving and run into this young man's arms. But overall he was probably grateful I was just moving in with someone this time, and not getting rings involved. As we unloaded boxes he read out a few of my packing labels “Shoes…pillows…full length dresses?”, I shrugged and smiled while my dad laughed and said “you've never lived with a girl before, have you?”

Our co-habitation was an interesting experience. At times wonderful, at times awful, mostly it was enjoyable and natural. I got along with his family but not so much his friends. He was there for me when my parents separated that October, he supported me while I was settling in to a new job and we moved to a new apartment. He loved to cook and would spend hours in the kitchen creating while I happily sat on the counter, drinking wine and chatting; some of my happiest memories. But people change more between the ages of 20 to 25 than at any other time in their lives, and we began to realize we were no longer on the same page, that possibly we wanted different things and were becoming different people...we ignored it as long as possible. I loved going out, getting fucked up, dancing and acting a fool. He was unsatisfied with post-grad life and wasn't sure what to do with himself, but knew it wasn't going out every night. It's hard to say what exactly happened, but the biggest factor was probably the breakdown in our communication; it’s much harder to be honest with someone face to face than it is over a few thousand miles. I noticed when I crawled in to bed in the early hours of the morning after my shift at the bar that he no longer reached out to me in his sleep. Eventually I made a list of pros and cons and weighed my options, but finally decided to go. I stayed away for a week to see how it would feel, and to postpone the inevitable ‘talk’ as long as possible. But the day came and I waited for him to get home from work. Standing on the balcony in the weak spring sunlight, listening to The Killers on my iPod and wondering if I was making the biggest mistake of my life, wondering how something that once felt so right could turn into this. After hours of talking, crying, arguing and bittersweet embraces, I closed the door behind me and walked away. I could feel his heartbreaking, and mine ached in return.

The next few months were rough. It’s generally assumed that the person who ends a relationship simply bounces back to everyday life. But the only life I knew there had been with him. To say I was unstable would be a gross understatement. I had my own apartment again and didn't hesitate to do whatever I felt like doing. Which was usually getting as drunk as possible without being fired from the bar and then taking home an unsuspecting male to use. Eventually I convinced myself I was over him, and started to date again and laid off the substance abuse.

I would still talk to him from time to time. There were a few brief periods in which I found myself single and we would try and see if ‘we’ could work again. But something was always off. There was too much baggage, too much pain, too many insecurities. Months went by since our breakup, then years and occasionally I would run into him, usually on purpose but sometimes by accident in the supermarket. A friendly chat would turn into dinner, accompanied by too many glasses of wine and I would look into his eyes and smell his smell that was ingrained in my senses and wonder what was wrong with me. Why couldn't I just be happy with him, and he with me? I begrudgingly began to accept that we were to be friends who care deeply for one another and perhaps nothing more.

It was the middle of summer, I had arranged a get-together because I had something rather important to tell him, and I was nervous. The air was warm though the sun had gone down and we were on our way to a pub as fireworks went off in the distance and colored the sky. I may have had a drink or two before we met up because I had that feeling like this might not be real life and I grabbed his hand in the middle of the street, stopped walking and declared “I’m moving to Australia!” then promptly burst into tears. He pulled me into his familiar arms and said nothing, just held me and waited for me to get myself together. After some eye dabbing and embarrassed laughter we went in to the pub and caught upon each other’s lives. Of course he would miss running in to me, but he wished me all the best and we agreed to see each other again sometime before I left on my adventure. 

Six months later my dad drove away from that city in his truck with me, my clothes and my memories. A random night in a cocktail bar with a handsome, charming man resulted in what I can certainly consider to be  the most defining time of my life. The road ahead is unknown and I bring a measure of caution that I didn't have all those years ago. I doubt I will ever love someone the way I loved him, because I am a different person now. But I try my hardest to be open with the people I meet, to enjoy every experience as much as possible, because you never know where it may lead. Dare I admit that every so often, in the twilight of my day, suspended in the darkness somewhere between awake and dreaming, I wonder if it will lead me back to him.