Things I've Learned From Women Who've Dumped Me - Ben Karlin [37]
I fell backwards into an abyss of darkness, dumped among the scattered hay. I watched from the floor as you were swept into the air, your tiny legs dangling lifelessly in the arms of a counselor. You surrendered our passion. And then you were gone. And so was our love. Forever.
When camp was over I returned home and I stopped attending Young Life meetings. My friends thought I just lost interest and I never let on. Then, later that summer, I received your first letter. My mother handed it to me with a sly smile and a wink. I tried to play it off like I received letters from women in other countries all the time. I dashed up to my room and ripped it open. I shook as I read it. Your words were so delicate and tender. There was even a cute drawing of you in an igloo eating seal meat. I must have read that letter thirty-five times. And they kept coming every two or three weeks—long, detailed accounts of your life in Quebec, each one ending with a gentle plea for me to reply. But I never did. I never even thought about it. I understood you were trying to reconnect, to fix what you had broken, but it was too late. I couldn’t forgive you for letting go.
When your letters finally stopped arriving, I simply put a rubber band around them and locked them in a metal box. I think I put the bottle of samurai shampoo in there to guard them, like an Egyptian burial site, but I can’t be sure.
I sat on the basement floor all afternoon reading your letters and drinking Coors Light from my father’s private stock. The letters were as funny and touching as they were so many years ago. As night fell I lit some old Christmas candles to make up for the poor lighting. Finally, I arrived at the last letter. I read it slowly, the same way you read the last pages of a great novel hoping it will never end and that’s when it happened. That’s when I read those twenty words in the last paragraph of your last letter that have forever changed me.
You wrote, “Well, I have to stop writing now. My palm is sweating and that makes it hard to grip the pen. I’m sorry. That’s gross.”
I gasped and then I took a long pull of my Coors Light. I crushed the can, threw it on the large stack of empties, and then said out loud, “We just never stop learning. Oh no, my friend, we never do.” And I read the words again and again.
You never stopped loving me, Liz. You didn’t give up on me that night. You didn’t let go of my hands. You slipped away due to some physiological disorder, which was probably inherited in the first place. Our love was done in not by your doubt or weakness but by your sweaty palms. That’s what you meant when you mouthed “I’m sorry.” You were sorry that you had gross sweaty palms!
But my pride, my silly male pride, wouldn’t let me see that. No! I was too ready to blame you for betraying me and all that was sacred. And in doing so I condemned myself to a life of mistrust and loneliness. “God, I’m fucking lonely!” I muttered, cracking open another can of Coors Light. “And I have no one to blame but myself.”
You see, Liz, sometimes, when we anticipate the worst in people, we destroy what’s best. I’m so sorry for not responding to your letters. Your sweet and lovely letters. The loss is as always, mine.
Unless of course, you are still single. Then perhaps we could arrange to meet up and have dinner or at least a drink at some point. I just happen to be single right now myself. I know it’s been a long time but maybe it’s worth a shot if you are, in fact, still single. I mean if you’re married or engaged then just disregard this. Unless you’re unhappy in said arrangement and then perhaps we could work something out. I could even come see your igloo. (Ha ha!) So let me know. I look forward to hearing from you. Write back soon!
Warm Regards,
Tom