Still in love with you

Vivienne Issue: Section:

“We share secrets and are vulnerable. We think it’s different this time. ”

I laugh inside a bit, how it all sprinted ahead of me. Usually I win the race.
I am cascading from many different falls: things and men and emotions have happened. They have made me re-analyze my entire situation. They have made me mad. They have made me other-worldly. They have brought me to the highest summit on a snowy mountain, beautiful coats of soft white paving the way and not even cold outside, air of Switzerland. They have also brought me flailing to the earth, arms searching, legs cramping, a hard hit on dirty cement. It can happen in one week. One year of a week where I get to know someone intimately, psychologically, playfully. We share secrets and are vulnerable. We think it’s different this time. We’ve both been through it before, too many times, sick of the games.

The “Can’t Stop” rush of sensory overload is the drug. And since we are not swallowing some pill, scarring our lungs, or sniffing up indiscernible powder, we don’t deem it dangerous. Instead it’s augmenting our creativity, our energy, our bright ideas. This is a “safe” and rather exciting high. The only hangover- -a breakup that is nowhere in sight. In my world, there is no such thing. Even upon glimpsing a quarreling couple, I remind myself what I’ve found is so sanguine, we could never be ‘that couple’.

How the days flow by better and how I’m stimulated until dawn, sleep is obsolete and I’m not even tired three days after. But once that thrill is gone, the world has crashed, just a bit, but directly onto my face. Life is fruitless, monotonous, and everything is difficult to accomplish. Lifting my coffee cup is a feat. Words wrestle with one another on the front page of the Times and I’m unable to discern a the. My newly-numb brain wonders why all the taxi cabs are the same color.

But surely it will come around again; in this great city, there are endless opportunities. I may be waiting in a long line at Trader Joes staring at Honey Flax Toasted Multigrain Oats with Dried Cranberries, or bumped into on the close- quartered M14 bus by an offering. Old Spice lingers and there it goes; my eyes widen and fixate, and the amount of energy absorbed into finding him, and having It, becomes alarming. It nearly seems real.

And then there’s the sheer addiction to falling. Not to meeting men that may be possible future mates, not to striking a match that could foster good, strong kindling. Mostly just burning those sparkler sticks you find at Fourth of July parties, the ones that sizzle and flicker so intensely then are gone like one tide onto another. It’s a bit masochistic, as these men range from unavailable to extremely unavailable. But they’re into it too. They’re artists or addicts or attention-seekers. Or dumped or enamored. They can see that high-resonating glimmer in your eyes, it’s not normal and beckons passion. The Amygdala sections of both your temporal lobes are whizzing. An invitation for reckless, delicious, and almost forbidden play. It’s also somewhat of a competition: Can each party keep up? One dares the other.

Overly-perfumed girls wearing heels taller than any squirrel or pepper grinder, along with the far-too obvious music the deejay was playing and general claustrophobia made me wonder what I was doing here. I promised my friend I’d stay for a drink and happened upon a guy named Mel Beck at the bar. Soon enough, between the dancing, fiery conversations, and obvious mutual attraction I knew I wouldn’t be leaving alone…

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