I didn’t know then that you can never be “sure.” I remember that I was trembling as I entered my credit card number into online ticketing. He didn’t hesitate to reply, “Go ahead and buy it.” I made a rule that we wouldn’t sleep together unless we were both single by the time I went to meet him. As fate would have it, things fizzled in his open relationship and he was feeling pumped up from the self-esteem boost that comes in being the one to end a relationship, The Dumper as opposed to The Dumped.He wrote a song about the break-up a few days before my flight. “And she'll be monogamous.” I wore rosewater perfume (his favorite scent) on a cross-country flight with a connection in Denver, spritzing myself in various airport bathrooms with a travel-sized bottle in order to keep myself calm. I had flown solo to Portland, Oregon and Portland, Maine, to Madrid and Paris and Amsterdam, Berlin and Dublin.And slowly, over weeks, he was learning more from me than just dirty talk.We talked all of the time, it seemed, through every medium we could get our hands on: instant messages, text messages, Facebook, Twitter, Skype, cell phone calls, work phone calls.
We were technologically inseparable for two months before I flew out to spend a week exclusively in his company.
As predicted, I got my way: we merely hugged with enthusiasm, kissed each other’s cheeks, and held hands at the airport, his left arm wrapped around my shoulder when we sat next to each other on the train.
The ride back to his one-bedroom apartment didn’t prepare me for what I found inside.
I told him the song was and wasn’t about us, save a few careful lines.
With a mere six words, he nailed my intentions to the floor.