We were sitting on the beach. It was four in the morning and we were both a little drunk. He tried to kiss me for the third – fifth? tenth? oh wait, that’s beers – time, and I could hear Barney Stinson in my head. This was the moment. FINISH HIM.
Apocalyptic retribution imminent – I was going to crush him. Oh god, I was tingly in the panties just thinking about it. It’d been two months since he dumped me, followed by radio silence. Two long, pathetic months of being unable to leave the house without full hair and makeup lest we chance upon each other in the street. Two excruciating months of having to recount the story to anyone I hadn’t seen in, well, the last two months. I had reduced my Facebook Timeline to scorched earth obliterating any trace of him. Now here we were, together again, and the sand in my pants wasn’t helping my mood. I was Daniel Day Lewis. There would be blood.
Damn, I’d loved this kid. I mean, I’d really fucking loved him. When I said he was the love of my life, I meant it. This shit isn’t Gossip Girl. I actually meant forever when I said it, not until we find out Bart Bass is still alive a couple episodes from now. (Sidebar to the writers over at Gossip Girl – six seasons of loyalty, and this is how you repay me? Work with me here guys.)
The second season of my relationship with my ex had ended with him saying he wasn’t ready for a serious relationship. Mmm yes, fear of commitment. Might have mentioned that before I quit my job and moved to Barcelona to be with him. Or at the very least before I gave away my 45″ flatscreen. It would have been the only courteous thing to do.
But being unemployed and sans-television will give a girl time to deal with her emotions. I redecorated my bedroom. I invented creative alliterative nicknames for each day of the week as an excuse to go out partying every night. And I also wrote an awesomely callous and vengeful breakup song. Yes, I am petty enough to do something like that. My own personal form of therapy came in the form a twelve bar tune, key of E, focused primarily on his under-endowed nether regions and his over-endowed capacity to be an huge dick. There’s irony there.
Then two months later we were alone on the beach, and my moment of glory was upon me. He said everything I wanted to hear – he loved me, missed me, was still the person I’d always thought he was. Waves lapped against the shore in the background; bicycle bells tinkled in the distance; a playlist of sweet summer music serenaded us from my iPod in the sand. He went in for a kiss, saying he wanted me right then, right there.
If we’re being honest, the panty tingles of vengeance I’d been feeling had been replaced by tingling of a different kind. I’d been in a bit of a drought post-split. And I’d really fucking loved this guy. And he smelled really good. And those three (five? ten?) beers weren’t helping. Revenge was a dish dangerously close to being served post-coitus.
And then my Awesomely Callous and Vengeful Breakup Song came up on the playlist.
He pulled back from the kiss and looked at me. “Is that you singing?”
I thought about lying. I thought about changing it. But then he saw my name scroll across the screen as the artist. Damnit. Damn me and my meticulous need to catalogue my music. I admitted it was me. And he told me it was lovely, and he’d always loved to hear me sing, even if he couldn’t understand the words.
That was right about the moment I remembered that my ex had never bothered to learn English, my native language. Nor had he ever learned my mother’s name, or how to budget his money, or that carrying a film camera around that you don’t know how to use kind of makes you look like a huge tool. Or that missionary is boring and not worth getting even more sand in your pants for just so you can have sex with your ex.
The song ended, a final verse promising he’d never get laid again. He told me it was beautiful. I agreed. And then I went home.
About the Author: Lizzie Ruiz
Lizzie Ruiz used to be a digital producer in Manhattan and probably will be again someday. After all, making cool digital stuff in New York City wasn’t the worst gig in the world. But she wanted to put a degree in Journalism and a severe case of wanderlust to good use. So for now, she lives and works as a freelance writer in Barcelona. Lizzie blogs at http://lizziegoes.wordpress.com.