My Ex (x 2)

V broke my heart, many times over I'll admit, but literally only twice. The first time was characterized mostly by a lot of wailing, complaining incessantly to a very good friend of mine, thoughts of suicide and generalized pathetic despair. My older, more mature self thinks about the girl I once was and wants to slap her silly, but my chance has passed. The second time was less melodramatic; it may have sown the seeds for a truthful perspective of reality on my part. For this, I owe him a great many thanks.

V speaks with India on his tongue -- the colloquial speak of the New York taxi driver implanted in a six-foot frame -- it's charming, unexpectedly sexy. From a distance he could resemble a turban-less Osama Bin Laden, but for the jeans and the cigarette hanging from his lip. He has long eyelashes and since he's the color of coffee with too much milk, the dark eyes are somewhat shocking.

He meditates everyday. Or at least tries to. He often proclaims to give up his vices, the vice of the week being the most pressing, whether it's cigarettes, alcohol, meat or sex. Like meditation, at least he tries. If I think hard about the first thing that attracted me, it's that he was a big fan of Tom Robbins -- it seemed to tell the little girl in me that underneath this threatening, rather doomed exterior was a soul that could delight in Jitterbug Perfume.

My method and my downfall was such: extrapolate and exaggerate to the point where his character is exactly what you've been looking for. And then fall in love! I did a great disservice to both of us. We ended badly, tried again, and again ended badly. My last impressions of him were of a tall, handsome ne'er-do-well; a sort of fuck-up who made me only angry; the bad boy who didn't love me.

Now, five years later, he's my friend -- the kind of friend who is your ex (x 2) and you're never really sure where to put each other. I fumble a lot and always read more into what he says than I'm supposed to -- the little girl I was shining through the cracks. Mostly though, I'm done being both angry, and hopeful. If V taught me anything, it is this: See. Really see. The person standing in front of you is only the person standing in front of you -- not a white knight, and not a perfect circle. So if you're going to fall in love, SEE FIRST, fall later.

I see him differently now -- he's no longer a mirage. V stamps out a cigarette across the table, flashes those dark eyes at me -- sweet with a hint of bitterness. I feel about him the way I feel about passionfruit; I like the idea of eating it, but I silently die a little bit inside from the sourness. He has always been just himself; a fact I conveniently let slip by when we were dating. He's the bad boy who is more real than I ever was, who didn't love me and who I didn't love.