“ loves dries up, I thought
as I walked back to the bathroom, even faster
than sperm.”
the end of a short affair by Charles Bukowski

I wake up at 6 am and immediately start to pack. Or more accurately throw my clothes hurriedly into my bags. The key to this kind of act is that it can’t be a bluff. If he doesn’t stop you, you have to be absolutely sure you can pull that bag down stairs and demand a cab to a train to Paris. Sure you can hope that he will stop you, but the one thing you can not do, under any circumstances, is finish packing and then burst into tears and plead with him to change his mind. No, this can not be an empty threat and no you can't show weakness. You've got to completely turn the tables. He'll expect begging, give him demands.

About half my stuff is thrown into the suitcase before he stops me. All he has to do is throw me on the bed and make love to me-insane and passionate. It’s so simple, it’s so fucking french how can he miss it? But what does he do? He hugs me. He HUGS me. Dear sweet baby jesus I’ve come all this way suffered the slings and arrows of French Plumbing to be disappointed by men on both side of the Atlantic?

I waxed for this man. I got a freakin' for Brazilian for this?!

And it is in this moment that all my darkest suspicions about the universe, that there is not even the pretense of anything vaguely resembling justice, that you can make the same damn epic mistake again and again, that no matter what the fuck I do for these idiot men I will never, ever be good enough for even though they should be thanking whatever deities they pray to for my interest.

I shake him off and try to continue to pack. He does, indeed, want me to stay, to at least talk. I tell him that I want to be alone, not to be Sarah Bernhardt , not to be a drama queen but because I don't want to be with anyone else. It is what I really want. If I can’t return to Paris, I want some other familiar solace. To sit and read and think alone. To nurse my wounds in private. Not to be constantly trailing behind this assclown and his daughter pretending all the while that I'm fine. If I can’t have him, I want to be with anyone.

No twilight, no gray area.

One would think that he would be in the mood to give me what little peace he can, but no. He insists on taking me to coffee so we can talk. What's the point? We can't understand each other. What kind of discussion does he think we are going to have. I go with him and sit in the sun, tears streaming out from under my sunglasses. I tell him it's better this way-for my studies, for my life. He doesn't apologize, but he does insist that he wants me to stay. He wants me to stay for the sun and the sand and the water. Such french fucking conceit. Like I had to come all this way to go to the beach. Christ I could have to gone to Cancun and picked myself some cute little cabana boy. After all they love me in Mexico and Jamaica. And I wouldn't have to deal with trailing behind a nine year old prima donna or being abandoned for hours.


Finally, he drops me off at the hotel. I tell him I want to be alone. First he says he'll leave me until 7 PM, then he amends to 3. This guy left me in a hotel room for hours without dinner only a few nights before, but now he's acting like being without me is some great difficulty. If I was capable of rational thought, I would have been completely baffled. As it was, I was annoyed. I just wanted to be left alone. It seemed that this guy was simply dedicated to the frustration of my desires.

Finally, he says he'll come back for me after lunch and because I want him to go, I agree.

The minute the door is closed I head for my dictionary, throw myself on the bed, and begin the struggle to write a letter, which will communicate to him exactly what kind of fucktard I think he is for doing this to me.

Labels: break up, heartbreak loss, loneliness