I was living in Spain for two months, finishing up my theseis, when Chris left me. For my sister.
Isn’t that a great story?
The man next to me in the elevator this morning reeked of the same trendy cologne and I giggled and grabbed my friend’s arm. Have I ever told you about the Surfer? I had not. So over cut-rate Au Bon Pain pastries, I told her the story I’m telling you now. Only, here I started with the punchline. You know, to get the drama over with.
We met at a hot spring — the kind you hike into in the dead of night, armed with flashlights and skimpy bathing suits. Or less. Moonlight is relatively gentle on flawed bodies. Both recently out of rather serious relationships (Mine, 3 years. His, nine months), we had one of those instant attractions. I have since realized that attractions of that nature are not only the most dynamic, but also the most precarious.
We had a whirlwind romance — the kind you fall into at the least convenient time, armed with… nothing. I was to be leaving the country soon for a short bit to tie up some loose ends and learn how to argue in my third language so I could defend my thesis. But for a month or so, we missed classes napping on the lawn in front of the campus library, stayed out all night to watch a meteor shower, and played connect-the-dots on each other’s sunkissed shoulders by the pool on lazy afternoons. He took me to see the same movie three times because I loved it. He bought me the soundtrack and we danced to it in the rain, his car doors open and the stereo turned all the way up. We waltzed in the rain. Sufer and ballroom dancer. I remember my Clinique TenderHeart lipstick stained his collar. Ah, the irony.
Late in May, he took me to the airport. He handed me his Abercrombie baseball cap and told me to wear it and remember not to fall for any sweet-talking Spanish men. And three weeks later, wrote to say he’d been spending a lot of time with my sister and, yadda yadda. I cried over chocolate and churros with the only other American in the plaza that morning — a history teacher from Saint Louis. Then I mended my wounded ego with Arturo, a political activist for Spain’s Communist party I met at the Rastro. Arturo turned out to be something of a stalker. But that’s a story for another day.
Chris is married now. And not to my sister.
The end.
I would have cried reading this, except that you’re able to laugh about it now. I guess we all have stories like that from our college days. But despite knowing that youth and travel are deadly for twue wuv, something inside me still wants those fantastic, instant-attraction, romances to work out. Deadly, hunh?
Me, too, Belle. There are some lessons that I don’t really want to learn
Is your sister still among the living?
Yes, of course. Though my father, in Solomon-like wisdom, joked about cutting Chris in half…
You should turn this into a movie script. Although it might turn into an indie flick because I don’t know what the denouement would be (i.e. would it have a “happy sewn-up” ending).
Chris-es are dangerous. (In my experience– and no offense to any Chris who reads this.) But at least you’ve got a romantic story to tell! Mine is much less European and Summer Lovers-esque and a lot more like something out of, oh, Joe Dirt. Sigh.
If I had a sister, and if I were gay, and she dated some guy that I used to, I would so laugh at her.
THAT just made me laugh out loud.
what a terrible thing to happen… but I suppose now it makes for a great story. something to tell those future grandkids
It felt very terrible at the time, to be sure. I spent an hour in a phone booth crying to my sister (read: I was NOT mad at her. I think that’s kinda important to the story.)
But five years has made it more of a classic anecdote than a sob story.