mom hasn’t called, but I saw Minari at The Angelika
What is there to do with an ex after a breakup?
The fun thing about writing about my current love life is having former loves, mistakes, and ghosts of dating past ask, are you writing something about me? Last month, last year’s ex—who I will now refer to as Sweet Sondheim—and I engaged in the ancient practice of the post-breakup meet. I initiated, I picked the location, I arrived first. That’s more effort than I’ve displayed in the ten months I’ve been single, and it left me wondering:
What do we expect from exes after a breakup?
Not much.
Before meeting SS for coffee, friends reminded me of our infamous first tiff over my wearing nail polish, that he lives 13 miles away in Harlem, and is tragically allergic to fresh garlic, which I (rightfully) incorporate into virtually every meal. You’ll never be able to cook for him without upsetting his stomach, they said. Think of the gas. What kind of future could you have?
One with laughter, I think. Sondheim still makes me and my butterflies laugh, as evidenced by the number of times I nervously covered my smile during our catch up. And then, our subsequent FaceTimes. Our trip to see Minari at The Angelika in SoHo. He made me chuckle during a heartache of a film; that has to mean something, I thought.
It was raining that night. I walked from the train to the theatre—in sneakers, to suggest I’d changed, grown less stuffy since the breakup—and with every puddle I hopped over, I thought of how much he loved the rain, how it forced a day-in; yet here he was, having a night out with me. That has to mean something, I thought.
I realize now all it meant was Sondheim wanted to see a movie, and wanted to so bad that he was willing to brave a light drizzle. There was no kiss during the movie, there was no bumping of the hands in the popcorn bucket; in fact, there was no popcorn bucket at all. There was a jumbo bag of Twizzlers I picked up from a Walgreens, and promptly finished later that evening, alone, as I replayed our unfortunate goodnight: no kiss in the rain, no kiss outside the subway platform, no would you like to come home with me? No lingering, wondering what we should do next. We parted.
All there is to do with an ex after a break up is feel. The less we think about building or rebuilding, the better off we are. I will not build happiness with this person, but I may feel it at the end of a shared lunch. We will not build a home together, but may feel at home when I revisit certain memories. There were good ones; like very early on, walking crosstown after a disco party date, because walking meant the night would last longer. Under muffled speakers that played a then-unknown Don’t Start Now, I knew he’d one day be my boyfriend, and that Dua Lipa would get her first Number 1 that year. I was right about both.
There aren’t too many boys I’d walk crosstown for. I don’t have many shoes I’m willing to crease. Still, although Sondheim has decided against rebuilding together, I’d still trek East to West to feel something with him: be it joy or liveliness or productive sadness, even. At present, that feeling is gratitude. In recent months, I’ve been reminded of my growth through him. I’m not bothered by what he or any man may think of the glitter on my very pretty nails, and all I want is to be transparent, not accepted.
So, I tell him what’s on my mind: I’ve been missing you
And hear what I don’t want to: I’ve been seeing someone new
But that is perfectly okay, because life and love continue. Pandemics near their end. We shave our heads, and order new jewelry. Our roommates remind us it’s a single boy’s summer, and by that he means, I’m sure, this summer is for the girls and the gays; of which I have many.