I'm not surprised by Marks' confession. I'm relieved. I wasn't the one to bring up the reason we've been avoiding each other. Trying to have sex the last six months have been excruciating. I can count on one hand the times he's tried to initiate sex: zero. Not that I've attempted to make it any better. On many occasions, I've pretended to be asleep when he'd get home late from work, and I've also picked up late shifts at work so that we wouldn't bump into each other until the following morning. There has also been a few times I've gone without shaving anything aside from my underarms. More like weeks. What would be the point? Mark hasn't touched me in months.
Our sex life hadn't always been like this. We used to have sex, not the fireworks type of sex, but it was good. At least, that's what I thought. I wouldn't have anyone to compare Mark to, because I've never been with anyone else.
And, if I tried, I wouldn't be able to pinpoint exactly when it started going bad. However, I can tell you that it is most definitely not me. It's never been me. I'm pretty. I'm smart. A total catch. Nope. It's him. He's a douche. A douche that I actually wanted to marry one day. Just not today.
Struggling with a response, eventually I reply with, "You're probably stressed out about being laid off."
He takes a loud pull of his cigarette and says, "Maybe."
"Did you make an appointment with the doctor?" I ask, kicking myself the moment the words escape my lips. Of course, the most obvious thing to do is call his doctor and find out what's wrong with his man stick but it's also the one thing he doesn't want to do because no man in the world wants to find out his disco stick is broken. So, I add casually, "To check your stress levels."
"No."
"Well, your penis is not going to fix itself dumbass," my mind screams. Instead, I say absolutely nothing. Which given the circumstances, is the most logical and safe choice.
He doesn't say anything more. Instead, he wipes away his tears while I wonder how I ended up with a limp-dick-smoker. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a sex-crazed woman in any way, shape or form, but when you're no longer getting laid, sex becomes important.
And, I love Mark, but love is never enough. Dreams and desires change and evolve. I realized, more than I was ready to accept, that I had evolved without Mark. I was no longer willing to wait for him to change.
Every time he failed me in the bedroom, he failed our relationship, our love, our trust and us. There was nothing more that I could do or say. Our relationship had finally come to an end.
A few seconds later, I hear a rustling from the living room. And then a door slams. Expecting him to return in a furry, I wait. I hear the tell tale ding of the elevator, triggering me to jump out of bed. I search the apartment. He's left. But not before ripping down the collage I made the night before, which I strategically placed around the apartment. I hightail it back to the bedroom and grab my cellphone.
"You will not believe what just happened?" I tell my best friend Amanda.
"Tell me you didn't really go through with it?" Amanda said.
"Of course I did. I've been asking him for months to quit doing drugs and he hasn't. Our sex life is suffering in the process and he thinks a little tear drop is going to make me feel sorry for him?" I pick up the torn pieces of paper from the floor.
Perhaps, I went overboard in my attempt to pull him from rock bottom, and although the last few months had been torturous, what I had failed to understand was that his failures as a man were his alone to bear. My desire for romance, sex, and passion, were rebutted with recriminating second guesses, Why didn't I admit to myself that he was a drug addict and a liar? Why did I stay? Why didn't I run off with that hot Mixed Martial Arts Instructor I met a few months ago?
"You're such a bitch," Amanda reminds me.
I shrug my shoulders and throw the papers in the garbage. "I thought we'd be together forever, you know. Why couldn't he do what most men do when they hit a life crisis," I whined.
"Because, he can't afford a midlife crisis," Amanda said. "Anyway, You're lucky."
"How am I lucky?"
"Well, if you think about it, you got the best of him," Amanda said.
Pursing my lips together, I gaze out of the living room window. From the thirtieth floor, New York looked innocuous and inviting. It didn't scream out what my heart knew so certain; if a limp-dick-cigarette-smoking-cocaine-snorting man was the best New York had to offer, I was going to be gravely disappointed.
"He got the best of me too," I said. "The tight, subtle, unwrinkled, zero cellulite parts."
Amanda sighed. "Why don't you reconsider letting me set you up?" she said.
For years, Amanda had tried to convince me to let her set me up on a date. She owned a prestigious dating service catering to high profiled people from all over the world. I always thought blind dates were weird. I felt as if there were certain expectations to going on a pre-planned date, like you were expected to like the other person or expected to see them again even if you didn't want to. I didn't want to be put in that situation.
"I don't think so," I said.
"It's really not as bad as you think it is," Amanda said. "These guys are the cream of the crop. I've been telling you for years that you've been missing out."
"Cream of the crop, huh?"
"Yes."
"If they're so great, how come you aren't happily married?"
"Setting someone up on a date is my special gift. My grandmother had the gift. My mother had it. As do I. And, like I've told you before, I can't set myself up on a date. It's like a genie not being able to grant themselves a wish. It just doesn't work that way."
"Well, what's the success rate of these dates?" I said.
"Eighty percent."
In all reality, eighty percent wasn't that bad at all. It was a lot better than my personal success rate, which was currently a zero. But, I'd never been on a blind date before. Knowing me, I'd say something stupid and ruin my chances right at the go.
"I don't know," I said.
"Look, I'm having a singles mixer on Friday. I'll put you on the list and if you show up, great. If not, no harm."
I continue to stare out of the window. New York was supposed to grant wishes, but none of mine had come true and I was losing all hope. What I needed was a break from men all together.
"Nah," I said. "I think it's best if I concentrate on school. Next semester is going to kill me."
"Okay," Amanda huffed and then, " Oh, and don't think this is an excuse to get out of going to our high school reunion tonight."
"I can't go."
"Why not?"
"Do you know how embarrassing it's going to be if I show up single?" I grumble. My life is full of things I do not wish, nor have any desire to do, like - exercise, eat tofu, see my exes happy without me, and yes, topping that list is going back to High School.
"Trust me, you're better off going alone than with that lowlife."
"Don't you remember High School?"
"No. I keep those memories locked in the deepest corners of my brain, with the rest of my childhood memories," Amanda said.
"Well, I do," I said.
In high school, I bragged about marrying Mark, traveling the world, and becoming a successful rehab specialist. Mark and I were going to live in the most posh condo in the Upper East Side and vacation in Bora Bora at our winter home. As a matter of fact, that's exactly what I wrote under my life goals in the yearbook. Although Mark did purchase a condo, it was his, not mine. And, I hadn't gotten around to obtaining anything besides credit card debt because I have to work full time to pay my tuition on account that the grants I received only covered a small percentage of the tuition
As far as travel, sure, Mark and I planned on taking a vacation, however one day he decided that he was afraid of planes. Coupled with his extreme case of motion sickness, cruises were also out of the question. Therefore, my travels consisted of errands to the grocery store, trips to the doctor to make sure I wasn't pregnant and lets not forget, the occasional visit to my shrink, who had convinced me that I was seasonally depressed - which wasn't really news to me at all considering how desperately I wanted to lounge beachside in the middle of French Polynesian sea.
Now, in less than twenty-four hours, I was going to show up at one of the last places you want to show up single, and the number one place where you are reminded of all the things you wanted to do, but haven't; all the mistakes you've made; and how badly you've fucked up - High School.