This time around was easy: I mailed the book I’d borrowed from The European back to his house, pushed the magnets he’d given me to the side of the fridge and called a plumber.
Calling a plumber isn’t part of my usual break up procedure, mind you, but now that I’m a homeowner, I’ve been forced to make a few adjustments to the customary wailing and gnashing of teeth.
There was no wailing this time. No gnashing of teeth. There were a few tears, a few curses mumbled under my breath, but the latter were primarily related to the fact that I’d left an entire jar of shredded Parmesan cheese in his fridge and wanted it for my pasta.
I will also miss his toothbrush.
And his bed.
And his shower.
And the fact that his house didn’t have plaster falling from the ceiling.
And his cat.
And him, of course. But he never wanted to connect on Facebook, never left toiletries at my house, never even stayed the night or learned how I like my coffee. I, in turn, never had him over for dinner, never bothered to learn about his hobbies and never found a term of endearment that fit. I tried “sweetheart” once, and then “babe,” but it always felt like I was just flinging undercooked spaghetti at the wall: nothing stuck.
I have nothing else to say today except that I am fine. And that I’m going to take a bit of a break from my blog, not because of the breakup but because of El Salvador. And because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life living in a semi-decent house, writing a semi-decent blog about semi-decent subjects.
I need a makeover. In so many ways.
Catch you on the flip side.