I ended it Friday night.
Everything I had was what I wanted, but for some reason my emotions were not in accord. Much like my growing departure from New York, sometimes what your mind tells you is irrelevant. My mind tells me New York is more my home than Puerto Rico. It tells me to stay connected, to return. It tells me I will never want to settle in Puerto Rico. Yet, my soul relearned smiling in Puerto Rico. My heart feels more at home daily. My core breathes. And with that, I know New York is not where I am meant to be.
He started kissing me. I kissed him back. Restrained. He kissed me there, his eyes watching me. I pulled him up and kissed him. I said, let’s go to bed. I couldn’t engage. I welcomed a bed where a few kisses could be followed by sleep. An escape from the intimacy of which I was unable. In bed, he kissed me. I wasn’t there.
“What’s wrong? You are distant,” he said. My lip moved, yet no words formed. “If you just want to be friends, that’s okay with me,” he ended the silence. Pain. Instantly. And it hit me. The emotions. Unseen tears as I turned in fetal position, away, to the mirror, the mirror where we would watch our dances. The mirror that came to life as we would go turn on the light and stare.
His statement cemented that he didn’t care, that my emotions far exceeded his. I was done. I said so. He justified his earlier statement. It didn’t mean that he doesn’t care. Irrelevant. The pain of which I felt was the discrepancy between how much we care. Goodbye companion.
“We need to go to the living room so I can see your face,” he was refusing to hear my words. I suppose words can lie, faces cannot. We sat on the couch. And I tried to explain what myself didn’t know, that I didn’t want a commitment, that I was like him, yet it wasn’t working. And he said,
I told you from the beginning. I don’t have anything to give. But, it’s not about the sex. I care about you. We talk for hours. I miss you. I like you.
Some statement about how rare, our sexual chemistry.
I don’t want to hurt you though. I understand. You will always be my friend. We can still do dinner, and talk, and . . .
What changed though? I don’t understand . . .
“i just can’t do this.”
Come. Let’s just go to bed.
“I have to go. I can’t. Goodbye.”
And then his eyes lowered. His voice wavered. Could he possibly cry? He couldn’t look at me. I went to kiss him. It wasn’t returned. I made a joke. And I turned from the couch. I never looked back.
I left Caballio’s. I ended it. Without knowing why. There would never be another dance. Goodbye mi companero.