The Third Installment

“You’re probably like, ‘I need to go back to Chicago, I don’t want to be here,” he said in a playful feminine mimicry. 

“No,” I was combative to his assumption. I broke our eye contact. My new line of sight was now my legs dangling outside of my car door. “I don’t want to be there right now,” I said.

“I mean, I told you how it was out ––”

‘’No, it wasn’t that, ” I interrupted before he was able to finish his sentence. I steered the conversation toward my thoughts, in fear of hearing his. This was due to the abhorrence of me hearing something that I forecasted from him but did not want to hear.

“I loved the vibe out there. It was dope… I would go back to Chicago. I loved it out there.” I said. There was doubt of my sincerity and redundancy in my thoughts. I mean. Did I really like Chicago? I went to Chicago as a shadow  and came back as a silhouette. Yeah, they’re the same but to me it was different. I think I did like it out there, but if I were to go back, it would not be within the next 10 years. How deep is my love for this city that is supposed to be my new home? 

And not to sound like everyone else, but why Chicago? 

“Too much, too soon?” he said in a tone that made it clear that he knew the level of fragility this conversation held. It was gentle. It felt like he was resting his head on my shoulder despite him being two feet away. Despite his tenderness, I still did not look at him.“No… not too much, just too soon. I have traveled alone before, but I do not think I was ready for this one .” I said as I stared at my built-in car speaker with concrete in my peripheral. I do not remember if I was tearing up. 

My vitality was vacant. He almost captured it, in two uncomplex words, “too soon”. Whatever that meant. At the time, all I know was, Chicago was supposed to be it, the final chapter of this saga. Instead, it opened up an extraneous volume. The agonizing third installment that was expected to end at the second. But if only I knew it was the outset of a feverous wraith.

This trilogy began in 2021 with me sitting in 102-degree weather with guy #1 who was my love interest. He was underemployed, fresh off probation, and was subjected to baby mama drama. Former meth user — never shot up. Multiple-time felon and he alleged that he never hit his baby mama, but blacked out one night and dragged her by her hair. This resulted in her leaving him and taking their kids with her. 

He was in no way capable of being the partner that I wanted. He was the perfect textbook example of a man-child, someone who grew up too late in life. And, by default, I fell into that situation with him headfirst because I was the perfect textbook example of a woman who thought she can rehabilitate a man. Our narrative was foreseeable. 

He was a clown, but I was the bigger fool. I was fixated on him. He was not financially endowed and received most of his income through governmental assistance. He made about six hundred bucks a month, and that bothered me tremendously. His laziness disgusted me, and he did not have any desire to change that. I was not able to look at him the same way after a night when we were amid intimacy, and I found out that he did not have any money to buy us gas station condoms. I hit rock bottom, that I know. I had no respect for myself, that I will second. 

The sex we had was amazing. He was a very passionate lover. He unfastened the barricade of my libido and lost the key. It felt like he took a chunk of my innocence. I was not able to come upon my sexuality on my own, it was sort of forced upon me. I was years advanced in sex and generations behind in life. I grew up without time moving. 

We also fought. A lot. Over the smallest of things. He was easy to set off, and he was so predictably unpredictable. Whenever we were in a heated argument, during bouts of violent eye contact, I always felt like he was seconds away from belting me across my face, he never did, but I knew it was only a matter of time. But for some reason, I still could not let him go. And the reason behind that was deeper than the sex we were having, and less than the connection that I felt with him. 

I was not growing up with this man. He had no goals for himself. Always lived in the moment. And my goals to travel to Curaçao, Amsterdam, or Thailand appeared bleak and empty. I knew I was wasting my time and resources during the time I spent with him. But interestingly enough, I felt comfortable. I felt like it was what I deserved. 

At 21, I had no idea what I needed to be doing, or who I needed to be with. I did not realize at 21, I should have stayed single. However, I did catch on rather soon in life that I was happier when I was not mindlessly dating. But since it was not what my peers were doing at the time, I could not dare to be different. Despite not knowing what I needed to be doing, I did have an idea of what I wanted my life to look like. I just did not believe a person like me deserved it. I have always been a writer ever since I was a child journaling about wanting to kill herself, in my garage. Even if I am not the next Alice Sebold or Sylvia Plath I got to be the next me. I have to, I had no other option, but to be a writer living abroad. Careless and happy and healed. Healing others and myself and the world around me. I want to help others. Indirectly. I want someone to want to come to me, not have to come to me. I want to be the people’s oasis. Safe haven. In this mystical life that I envision for myself I still do not have many friends. And from some angles in this vision, if  I squint hard enough, I have a romantic partner, but that’s only on good days. But in the full picture, I am still content. But before I opt out, I want to make something out of this God-awful life. And I knew that I was the only one to provide it for myself. The only one. And he was someone who I did not want to share that life with.

Guy number one possessed none of the attributes that I wanted to abide by. And I think I kept him in my life for as long as I did because I was desperate for the company during my time there in Sacramento. On the surface of it all, I knew he was never going to be for longevity. The second my mom caught heat that I was dating someone and intrinsically wanted to meet him, I knew what I had to do; and I did. I mean, he was not necessarily a bad guy. Just very insecure. And very broken. No one was able to show him what a genuine love exchange was like. No one taught him the ropes. I did not feel responsible to teach him, but I did want to expose him to life outside of what he was used to. And at thirty-two years old, any location outside of South Sacramento would cause him to coward his tail between his legs and bite with his eyes closed. He was a reactor without thinking. And I was thoughts with no reaction.

I enjoyed my time with him when we were not intimate. I enjoyed our conversations, and time flew by when I was with him. But desolation tends to warp my memory. And at that time, all I wanted was to feel warm again, and I would have taken any opportunity to achieve such serenity, even if that meant the devil himself had to serve it to me on a hot plate. During this time, I was fresh out of college, undecided on a career path, working as a cocktail waitress. I lost myself in this job. My income solely relied on tips and the nights when my tips were scarce, directly affected my self-worth. I equated my self-worth to the number of disposable cash people had in their pockets.

I also was not painting, I was not reading, I was not hanging out, or dating. I did have intense moments when I was employed by writing. It kept me sane, and sure as hell prevented me from slicing my throat to the bone. During this time, I started to take upon drinking. Working at the bar peaked my fascination with mixology and exposed me to an immense amount of alcohol, which skewed my perception of the start time of happy hour. But drinking only amplified my agony, and I caught on to that early on. 

I did not have any friendships during this time. I had my acquaintances and colleagues, but in no way did I have anyone to run to during the days I felt indifferent. I was heartbroken. A shell of a person. I do not think anybody noticed my lack of breadth. And they sure as hell did not care to notice my turbulence. But I was aware that they were aware of its existence. And I think they respected me for being able to keep it to myself. 

If only Chicago would’ve worked out.