I dated a man once who seemed to sit on the outside of his
relationships and watch the plot unfold, adding a few dramatic
flourishes and keepsakes for effect. I found his tales of parting
gifts to former lovers odd, I had the impression he needed Act
II to be over so that he could write the ending and begin a
new play. One girl got his guitar, another, a coveted book of
poetry signed by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Their stories lived-on
inside a shoe box on the top shelf of his closet, and some
entries in a leather bound journal held shut by a leather strap.
He had written some nice things inside of it about me, but
hearing how great I am as we part ways has gotten repetitive
in my own story line. The question begs, do I subconsciously
wish for my own shoe box and leather bound journal of good
byes and thank you for stopping by, the ******* were lovely?
No, to be fair to me I don’t. I know one thing though, I would
want an original copy of Leaves of Grass, that is, if I wanted a
parting gift. I told him to let goodbye be enough when it ended
and that I needed to be more than one of his shoe box girls. He
was startled and a little embarrassed. I am still attempting to
decipher how my saying it needed to end made me feel like I
had just gotten dumped. Other times, I have unwittingly used
my own power of persuasion to shake a love struck boy into
the possible reality that I am not as magical as he thinks I am.
But I really wish he would refute me, in spite of my convincing
argument. I still hope for the “you are the most fascinating
woman alive and I cannot live without you” prize. I poked
holes for air in the lid of the shoe box to keep that hope alive.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
I dated a man once who seemed to sit on the outside of his
relationships and watch the plot unfold, adding a few dramatic
flourishes and keepsakes for effect. I found his tales of parting
gifts to former lovers odd, I had the impression he needed Act
II to be over so that he could write the ending and begin a
new play. One girl got his guitar, another, a coveted book of
poetry signed by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Their stories lived-on
inside a shoe box on the top shelf of his closet, and some
entries in a leather bound journal held shut by a leather strap.
He had written some nice things inside of it about me, but
hearing how great I am as we part ways has gotten repetitive
in my own story line. The question begs, do I subconsciously
wish for my own shoe box and leather bound journal of good
byes and thank you for stopping by, the ******* were lovely?
No, to be fair to me I don’t. I know one thing though, I would
want an original copy of Leaves of Grass, that is, if I wanted a
parting gift. I told him to let goodbye be enough when it ended
and that I needed to be more than one of his shoe box girls. He
was startled and a little embarrassed. I am still attempting to
decipher how my saying it needed to end made me feel like I
had just gotten dumped. Other times, I have unwittingly used
my own power of persuasion to shake a love struck boy into
the possible reality that I am not as magical as he thinks I am.
But I really wish he would refute me, in spite of my convincing
argument. I still hope for the “you are the most fascinating
woman alive and I cannot live without you” prize. I poked
holes for air in the lid of the shoe box to keep that hope alive.
