The Last Ben

What is it with Bens? Bens are always the guys that are so sweet and charming and maybe even a little on the innocent side, and you just want to hide in the corner all day and smile at them without them ever knowing. If you do manage to crawl out of your hobbit-hole and actually talk to a Ben and maybe befriend him or God-forbid, fall in love with one, that’s when the trouble starts. That’s when you start to get all ooey-gooey and little stars linger in your peripheral vision because all your oxygen (that should be being directed to your lungs, to then be transported to your blood cells, so your brain and other vital organs can function properly) is instead going into your mouth and right out your nose, in long, wistful sighs. “Ben this…” and “Ben that…” start to punctuate the beginnings of all your sentences, and pretty soon all your girlfriends are ready to smack you up-side the head with that perfectly beautiful steak on your plate that you are only drooling over, instead of salivating for.

If only food could be enough sustenance for our silly little pining hearts, so that they wouldn’t have to be ground to a powdery pulp by a Ben. If only, every time we feel the need for a brawny arm to be slipping around the smalls of our backs, we could just go eat some chocolate pudding instead, and feel perfectly fulfilled. Who the hell needs men anyways? Really? Who the hell needs them? Especially Bens.

This is how the pep talk starts. This is the speech that every best friend has to keep locked away in a private safe to only be used in case of emergencies. Not sirens-swirling-lights-flashing-pull-over-on-the-side-of-the-road-even-though-you-are-already-late emergencies. No. I’m talking about eat-icecream-till-the-snot-stops-bubbling-out-your-nostrils emergencies. I’m talking about buy-an-extra-box-of-kleenex-just-because-this-is-the-gas-station-where-you-first-met emergencies. Yes. Those.

Everybody wants to feel loved. Whether or not they are actually loved is an entirely different story, but we would all at least like to feel loved. It’s the illusion we are going for. Nobody has the time or the energy to actually try to be loved. Life just doesn’t work like that anymore. It’s like how you get so caught up in your extracurricular activities in school, so you forget to dedicate the proper amount of time to studying for that lame old chem test. So you flip through your notes and make up silly analogies and associations so that somehow you have the periodic table memorized- but it all has an expiration date. You started studying about an hour before the test, so it’s probably only going to stay locked in your brain for about an hour after you start the test. But the illusion you are going for is that perfectly filled-out Scantron. All the little graphite bubbles are glistening from just the right location and the machine that grades your test gives your teacher (and your transcript) the illusion that you have something great: a well-used brain. The longing for the illusion of love, the ignorance of bliss, works the same way:

You meet some guy at some inconsequential place where you normally would never ask someone out- like at the grocery store. He’s cute (of course); you are a mess (nobody was supposed to be shopping this late!) but he finds it endearing (what a prick); you exchange numbers (why?!); you get dolled up (way too much effort); he greets you with flowers (how sweet?); you go out (why not? -free dinner); you kiss (oh crap…); you close the door (finally); you let out one of those deadly sighs (you know the ones), and you’re hooked. Date 1 is the beginning of bubbling in the Scantron with the idea that you might miraculously ace the test, not realizing that you bubbled in the wrong test form number to start with. Bens are trouble.

*****

News flash, people: romantics are not always the diamond-sprinkled cupcakes they are made out to be. The worst thing about Romantics is the adjective that usually precedes their title: “hopeless”.

Sure, sure, idealism states that romantics are the best lovers; in fact, even Cosmo has it etched in stone. My problem with them, though, is that they are often more “dreamer” than “doer”. When you ask your Romeo to run to the store for some chicken and paper towels, he comes back home with toilet paper and animal crackers and says, “I was gonna buy you some flowers, but then I remembered the vase is dirty.” I haven’t always been this bitter; my face hasn’t always looked like Grandma-just-farted-and-tried-to-blame-it-on-the-dog-again in response to Sally-be-Swooned saying, “he’s sooo romaaaantic.” The cynicism started after my recent realization that it was time to get over the latest wood-chipper of my pining heart: Ben #3.

I first contracted the dopey-smiles and starry-eyes (simultaneously) when B3 shuffled into my coffee shop looking like he could have been Nicole Kidman’s brother. Bean pole tall, paper thin, and pale and flawless as a doily, he was like an anorexic angel. The first thing that really induced lockjaw though, was his perfectly aqua-colored eyes. I think I probably made him repeat his Dumbo-simple order of a Regular Chai Tea Latte With Skim Milk Whipped Cream and dash of Vanilla about four times before I could stop staring at those Bahama-blue eyes, (well, you know, judging by the scantily clad, bronzy babe commercials on TV). I wasn’t supposed to be working the register that morning, but my flaky new counter girl was sick at home with an infected nose piercing. Nobody wants to watch some puss-nostriled Rudolf hanging her head over their morning jolt of vitality. Besides, I needed some sunlight.

Usually I was stuck in the back office doing paperwork and begging for extensions on the electric bill till about 1 in the afternoon, when I would then poke my head out to make sure Hiroshima wasn’t happening in the front room because somebody let the milk steam too long again. Then I’d grab a sandwich out from under the sneeze guard, sip on a ridiculously chalky but oh-so-healthy vita-diet-smaller-waist-in-no-time shake until I couldn’t stand it anymore, and then head back into the bat cave till closing time. You’d think that with a business degree from Emerson College, I would be able to keep the books balanced a little better, but hey- I thought pulling off little Miss Independent Business Woman would be a little easier and a little more glamorous than it turned out to be while I was working on my double-major in English. Instead of arriving at work in a prim little pencil skirt with a briefcase at 8 A.M. 5 days a week, I schlop in around 6:30 A.M. 6 days a week in pin-striped jeans that I should have given away years ago with a neck pillow under one arm and a carton of orange juice under the other. My reading glasses (am I that old?) need a new prescription (and maybe younger looking frames) and as my mother would say, my stringy black-brown hair tangled into a loose braid probably makes me look something like a “street urchin” (and I thought they told us in school that urchins lived in the sea).

Anyway, I was tired and grumpy, but enjoying thawing out in the early morning sun, when B3 strolls in like he’s got all the time in the world. (This is something you take notice of at 7:30 in the morning when all the suits that pack the room are anxiously checking their watches and tapping their shiny shoes with every syllable that comes out of their cubicle-speak mouths grumbling all of their conference-table jargon.) So my Nicole Kidman lover boy wanders up to the counter after eyeing each individual pastry adoringly and orders a reg. CH SM +V as if he’s telling the movers where to put his grandmother’s sofa in his hot new bachelor pad. You know the tone- excited about the new location, but still living with the same old furniture. I could see, after returning from my momentary palm tree-framed mental vacation, that this cutie in the print-screened hoodie could use a little mocha spice in his life, (but I hadn’t decided yet if I just wanted to make his drink taste different… or his life).

In walks some blonde bombshell in 3-inch heels (that I’m positive can’t be work-safe) and the pencil skirt I promised myself after graduation. In a moment of panic, I scribble the order a little too fast onto the foam cup with my grease pencil, and the lead breaks off and smacks me square in the eye. I slip on something that I should have mopped up 10 minutes ago, and my sneakered feet fly straight up into the air right before I crack my skull on our recently polished cement floor. When I come to, shaggy-haired blue-eyed boy-wonder is bent over my face while Patrick the delivery boy and some suit who announces that everything is going to be okay because “I’m a Doctor” kneel beside me. For a moment I’m thinking, “No I’m not, I own a coffee shop,” and then all I can see is his cute little concerned face. Now my heart is starting to race because I realize what a fool I’ve made of myself and I recognize the Doctor from somewhere... Wait a second… Oh. I got it. It’s the blonde. Great.

So now I don’t know if I should act all damsel-in-distress so that He will cradle my head a little longer, or say that I’m fine so that the bitch who is sure to steal the love of my life, (just by smelling like the expensive vanilla extract I was about to put in his cup), will get the hell away from me...and him. I mumble some slur of all these thoughts starting to swirl in my now-aching skull like, “Stop… smelling… so blonde.” What the fuck. Now He’s looking at me like I’m either the cutest thing he’s ever seen, (or the most insane) and She is so busy checking my vitals in front of everybody (who just wants to get some coffee and then get the hell out), that Blondie (fortunately) doesn’t notice my latest fumble of the English Language. I am smitten and pissed at the same time—both emotions are making my cheeks hot.

I should have called my best friend Sam to come take me home. I’m not sure why it didn’t occur to me in time, or maybe her phone number just flew out of my brain as my feet were in lift-off. If Sam had sped over from her teaching job at our dear old Emerson to save the day, I might have saved myself a little heartbreak months down the road. More on that later, though.

Presently, my head feels like the thing that’s broken, and Doctor Barbie thinks I may have a contusion or allusion or concussion something and thinks I should get rest or a hospital, I don’t know; I’m spinning. Groggily, I am trying to communicate the message on the billboard that just lit up in my brain, in the most polite tone humanly possible: HELL NO I AM NOT LEAVING YOU HERE IN MY COFFEE SHOP TO SWOON MY BOY WONDER. I SAW HIM FIRST. But what comes out is a little more along the lines of, “oh… I think… cement… fine…. mocha spice…?” Again, with the gibberish. You must look real sexy now. Good job, street urchin. For some God-forsaken, incomprehensible reason, delivery boy Patrick is already on the phone trying to get Rudolph to come in to cover for me, her boss. Apparently, the nose piercing has been ousted from its post as Latest Facial Decoration and she is lounging in her back yard “catching some rays”. Her mother, who answered the phone, assures Patrick, and thus everyone else behind the counter, that Mademoiselle Flakiness is going to be feeling generous today and will be here shortly with a smile, (and a Band-Aid) pasted to her face. Boy Wonder supposedly lives nearby and happens to have his new little eco-friendly midget of a car waiting outside. Not-so-work-safe Doctor Diva, and other faceless people who feel the need to pitch in, all attempt picking me up off the floor as if I was on a stretcher made of forearms. Now I am gurgling in a more forceful, (and obviously displeased), tone and they set me back down on the cold wet floor. I wearily wave one of my arms and somebody realizes that I would be slightly less humiliated if my stretcher friends helped me walk out of the building, instead of riding a magic people-carpet outside. Thank God. Sort of.

Somehow the shop staff think they can get through the entire day without me, and all my stretcher friends actually wave goodbye as Bahama-blue eyes pulls away from the curb. He has a couple of illegible written instructions from Blondie and her phone number in case “anything” happens with me that she may need to come check on, (as it turns out that her office is “just a couple” of subway stops away from his place). Frankly, I wouldn’t blame him for accepting the offer of a nooner from between those mile-long legs, but I also still stand by the very valid observation that I saw him first.

Now that my brain and mouth seem to have some semblance of construction of an information super-highway between them again, I manage to ask his name, sort of.

“So, uh… how do I know you aren’t some psycho killer with his latest victim in the passenger seat?” I ask, still unable to comprehend why that was the first thing I say to him.

“Well, same way I know that you didn’t fake that whole episode back there just to get in my pants, I guess” he says nonchalantly, but smirking.

Oh my god. Is it possible? Is my subconscious Really That Persistent? Am I Really That Desperate? Oh Crap, he’s looking over here. Oh God Oh God Oh God.

He must see the angst on my face because a small chuckle slips out from between his perfectly pink lips and a sliver of his adorable picket-fence smile peeks out from between them for a second. Meanwhile I’m trying desperately to stare out the window and look really indifferent as to anything he does or says. Maybe I haven’t fully snapped out of it yet. Maybe I shouldn’t talk for a while.

He looks over at me again, this time craning his neck a little, making it a little obvious that the midget-mobile doesn’t have very many good hiding places in it for something quite my size.

“I’m kidding,” he says.

Duh, I think, but trying not to come off too annoyed.

He clears his throat and says, “My name’s Ben?” like he is asking permission to start the conversation over.

I slowly start to turn my head back toward him, still embarrassed by the “whole episode back there” and by the fact that I have already accused him of potentially being a serial killer when really, I secretly have a crush on him, and have only just learned his first name. I guess now would be a good time to give him my name, at least the first part of it, anyways. But wait; what if he is a psycho who is only acting nice to get me to go home with him? Should I give him my real name? What if he goes through my purse and steals all my credit cards after I fall asleep? Where is my purse? Should I throw open the passenger-side door and pull a stop-drop-and-roll onto the blurred pavement and scream for someone to call 911? Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?

Just then, I get a text message from Patrick, letting me know that he stayed till Rudolph, (who calls herself is Sky or something equally pseudo-artsy) arrived at the shop to work the counter. He didn’t have to do that, but I appreciate it. He’s a sweet kid who has been delivering all our non-food supplies (like cups, filters and stir sticks), for the last year or so, saving up his earnings to go toward college. When I pull the beeping phone out of my pocket, a little confused to find it there, and see Pat’s name on the screen, I impulsively blurt out that my name is Pat, even though it’s definitely not. And even if I had pulled that whole damsel-in-distress act at the shop just to get into this Ben character’s pants, I definitely don’t have the energy, (or the naughty just-in-case lingerie stashed in my purse) to follow through on my evil plan now.

The short ride to Ben’s apartment seems like an eternity because I manage to keep this awkward talk-oh-wait-don’t-talk charade up the whole way. Ben seems to roll with it and not take it too personally, so I assume (fingers crossed) he just chalks it up to my head wound. He helps me up the 2 flights of stairs (very slowly), unlocks the door to apartment 212, and viola, I’m in. The place is quaint, but neat. The hardwoods are surprisingly shiny, the walls are a peaceful shade of robin’s egg blue, and Grandma’s gaudy tapestry couch has been traded in for a simple brown leather sofa and matching recliner. Ben pulls a blanket out of a cabinet under the TV and lays it on the sofa “so you don’t get too hot” and he gently lowers me onto it, cradling my head again like he was doing when I was laid out on the coffee shop floor maybe 30 minutes ago. Already, I am a sucker for this guy, and I don’t even know a thing about him, (except that he has pretty nice taste for a guy his age). (Well, the age his face looks, which I would guess is about 23 or 24). Almost instantly, I am asleep.

Some unknown amount of time has passed and I wake up to Ben sitting next to me with a huge glass of water in his hands. I sip some; I smile groggily and graciously; and I am asleep again. I wake up again and that golden hue of light is coming through one of those big bay windows that old Boston apartments are known for, turning the whole room into a beautiful glowing sanctuary. Ben is there, next to me on the couch again, and his shaggy locks are catching the light, creating a halo around his head like that of one of those guardian angels in medieval paintings. I can barely make out his facial features, as his head is eclipsing the bulk of the light that would be blinding me, but I think he is smiling. This time, he has brought me a huge glass of orange juice. My mouth feels like someone has fed me some of that goopy paste you use in kindergarten to adhere popsicle sticks together, so I gladly gulp the juice. He asks how I am feeling and I manage to utter, “better”.

I sit up and we chat for a while until we are both hungry. He orders Thai food and we eat stir fry out of the cartons, still sitting on the couch. You would think a guy like this would be a girl’s dream come true, and I did, too, for a while. You would think the rest would be “history” and it all had a happily-ever-after ending. Well, he was sweet and attentive and thoughtful, for a while. He wrote me letters and told me his deepest darkest thoughts and brought me foreign films for us to watch on the weekends, for a while. He was my best friend, for a while. All of it was perfectly cookie-cutter happy-go-lucky, for a while.

*****

When I was a little girl growing up in suburban Massachusetts, I remember my father had this poet friend named Gene. Whenever this bearded man, with smile lines around his eyes like the cracks in an otherwise perfect fallen soufflé, would stop in for a visit, he and my father would scurry into a back room following a noisy, belly-laughing, back-slapping greeting. They stayed up late into the night telling old stories and whispering about business in the dim lamp light; and after he left, my father would always remark with a twinkle in his soft brown eyes that “someday that man is going to be very rich.” I know now that they were old college buddies and that my father greatly admired and believed in Gene’s work and was giving him whatever we could afford to spare, in order to keep his friend’s art alive. One of the few times my father’s old friend ever looked me straight in the eye when he told me something, it turned out to be something that has stuck with me since then, and has grown more profound to me as I have seen more of the world. He said, “The best love is like fine wine, my dear; as it ages, it becomes more priceless, and harder to find.”

My whirlwind romance with B3 was not made of this kind of love. During the Romantic period of our relationship, I know I daydreamed about us possibly growing old together someday, although I have all but eradicated these images from my mind by now. Everything I did, everything I thought about, everything I worked for, became hard-earned stepping stones toward living out that postcard image of us in my head of two wrinkly, pudgy, happy people in rocking chairs, watching the sun set over the Atlantic from our front porch.

Whatever he did, or thought about, or worked for was, for him, a fear-planted stepping stone away from losing me. I know it sounds arrogant to say it so bluntly, or even preposterous to state it so simply, but as I came to find out much too late, it was painfully, honestly true. People have to have goals; they have to have dreams; they have to have reasons to live; but Ben, as it turns out, was one of the most sickeningly complacent people I had (or have) ever met.

In college he had never taken any challenging (or interesting) classes. He always sat in the back, from what I gather, and slid by with barely a C average. His parents, who had worked so hard all their lives to provide for their children, and who loved him so much that they were afraid to see him fail in life, cradled or rescued him whenever they could. When I met him, his father had just paid the down payment on his son’s new car as a graduation present, although B3 is still without possession of a diploma, as far as I know. The car was intended to serve as incentive to succeed, but instead was simply a reward for failure. The brown leather sofa and recliner in his living room was a gift from his uncle, who owns a furniture store in upstate New York, and his hair was shaggy because he was too lazy to look for a Super Cuts nearby. I’m not sure anything he earned in his life was ever of his own volition. Everyone else was always worrying about his life for him, paying his way for him, saving his ass for him. But, again, I didn’t realize the enormity of the disaster that was his life (and lack of will to live it himself) until much too late, when I saw that I couldn’t make him do any of this on his own, any better than anyone else who had ever tried.

The reason I say people only really want the illusion of love is because they only really want to love the illusion of their mates. Nobody wants to wake up one day and say, “Oh my God, he really is a fat, lazy, selfish asshole who cheats on his taxes and needs to wax his back!” –and that’s why I think people fear commitment so much these days, too. So they concoct this smoothie of a mate in their head that is half Mr. Right and half Mr. Reality. They throw in a dash of “but he’s so adooorable!” and sprinkle some “and look how sweet he is with kids…” and then when they get bored, they get the hell out. They get bored because they are tired. They get tired because it takes a lot of energy to keep that blender in their brains churning the two very different Mr. Rs together to keep him tasting just right. When a guy does come along that seems to actually be Mr. Right, and not just putting on a show for us, we say he’s “too good to be true” and sabotage it. Very rarely do people find what they want in a partner anymore, because they either tossed the baby out with the bathwater years ago, or they settled for Mr. Right Now and no longer agree on the decisions that the younger version of themselves made long ago.

Fast-forward to three months after the coffee shop incident. I am standing on the edge of quaint little ice skating rink just outside of town, near where my parents live. I am wearing a pea coat that is a little too big for me and a scarf my mother knitted for me when I went off to college. My feet are cold and clammy and my nose is running like a faucet. I’ve been standing like this, shivering just enough for it to be annoying, for 45 minutes, waiting for Ben to show up for his birthday date. I wait for another hour, sitting on the iced-over metal bench next to the entrance to the rink. I call Sam so that I don’t look so pitiful, like I actually have some semblance of life, and she distracts me from my combination of disappointment and genuine concern that something horrible has happened to him. When she jumps off the phone because she suddenly realizes she has to pee, I get a call from Ben shortly thereafter. He forgot we were meeting at the rink and has been waiting for me to call him to say I am ready to be picked up. Here’s the kicker though, while waiting for me to call, he forgot that’s what he was waiting on, and decided to go grab something to eat with a couple of his friends down the hall. So now he probably smells like burritos and has dripped something on his “date” shirt and is too tired (from digesting?) to drive out to the rink to meet me as planned. Sigh. I call Sam back, disgusted, and she hops into her teacher-mobile at lightning speed, and comes to my rescue, as usual. Sam-the-Super-Teacher comes complete with a cape, tights, and even a neat utility belt that holds Q-tips and Kleenex in case of emergencies.

Fast-forward to 6 weeks after the ice-skating flop. My mother, who is of the snootier breed of Bostonians, and I are having a snooty lunch at a snooty little café and Ben is supposed to be swinging by to meet her after he gets off work. Ben’s work is not a particularly interesting job: he makes smoothies; but when some shiny new fruit-squeezing machine or fancy little wheat grass-masher comes rolling through the doors he gets excited. Why the advancements in smoothie-making technology are more interesting than his adoring girlfriend, I have yet to figure out. So back to the lunch table with two chairs occupied by two mildly peeved women who are trying not to talk about the other unoccupied chair, I’m making excuses about the importance of Ben’s job and my mother is getting impatient. I find my gums flapping about how Ben might be thinking about applying for a higher position at Juice World and how some freak freezer incident could have occurred and he just hasn’t been able to tear himself away from saving his coworkers to call us yet. The reality is that some chrome-plated wonder has been installed today and Ben forgot he was taking off early to meet up with us. I know not to call his cell while he is up to his elbows in frozen strawberries, but you can’t get mad when a customer calls in on the business line, can you? Speed dial Juice World. Manager hands phone to starry-eyed idiot and words like “uuummm” and “sooorrryyy??” and “ooohhh…” start dripping out of his mouth like molasses. The snooty lunch taking place on the other side of town continues without him and my mother and I resolve not to talk much after I hang up the phone. She has an opinion about everything.

The day that I knew it was time to drop my once-beloved, now-be-loathsome, Ben was the day Sam got sick of watching me put up with all of his bullshit. I was miserable but was so engulfed in my love for him (and my dream for us) that I had somehow forgotten to first love (and dream for) myself. I guess I thought that was his job. Thus began my awareness of the Disillusionment period of the relationship:

I had slept over at Sam’s house and was woken that bright sunny morning by the buzz of my cell phone under my pillow. Normally, I would have been up already, (as I almost never see the sun rise from the warmth and comfort of my bed) but this was a much-needed day off. So the phone rang and I answered. I was a little groggy (from a girl’s-night-out that lasted a little later than I had planned), but coherent. B3 had barely said hello before the excuses started flowing mellifluously from his pitiful little pink mouth. I don’t even really remember now what it was specifically that he was stammering on about, mincing and stuttering his words as if it were physically possible for me to strangle him through the phone, but that’s beside the point. The point is this day’s excuse for canceling our plans to get together for a much-needed we-need-to-talk dinner. B3 was such a spineless worm of a guy that he couldn’t even come up with a plausible reason for canceling on me, yet again, and his fear of our eminent breakup stunk like you imagine the breath of an ogre or a homeless guy with a severe case of gingivitis might smell. B3 let fear make decisions for him the way alcoholics let their poison of choice run their respective lives.

The one thing I do remember from that ridiculous conversation, (which I spent most of the time rolling my eyes and saying “uh-huh” a lot) was what he said at the very end before I hung up on him: “…I ..I love… you?” He had to make it a question instead of a proclamation because it was not intended to be a declarative statement, but rather a spineless test to see if I would reply with the usual four-word answer. How can a person take a sentence that carries so much weight and trust and emotion in a relationship and twist it, no, deform it, into a spineless wormy way to find out if he is in trouble? By adding a question mark at the end of it and sounding like a scared puppy that just pissed the best rug in the house. That’s how. Instead of 4 words, he got a long sigh followed by a special little four letter word I had been saving just for him, just for right then: “fuck… you.” Okay seven letters, who cares.

After I tossed the phone into the crack between the sofa cushions, I shuffled into Sam’s room and threw myself onto her bed, burying my face in the pillows beside her. She was already starting to wake up as I’m sure she had heard the thick silence hanging over that repulsive conversation in the other room minutes earlier. It hung over me like smog that could be cut with a butter knife. She muttered from her pillow in a tone that was more exhausted than supportive, but was thinly veiled in consolation.

“Who was that?” she asked, knowing who it was, but knowing better than to utter his name too soon.

“Him.”

“And?”

“Worm.”

“He cancelled?”

“Duh.”

“You’re miserable.”

“No... I’m just…”

“No, you’re miserable. I haven’t seen you like this in ages.”

“He knows we need to talk.”

“He’s seen this coming long before you have.”

“Worm.”

“You know what you have to do, and you know that I’m not going to tell you what it is.”

“I know.”

Right as I was saying this last thing, it felt like I was lying on the cold ground and the world was closing in around me. Right as I said this last thing, it felt like I had been kicked in the stomach so hard that my spine might break. Just as I considered this feeling, I was determined that I would not allow it to break. I would not stoop to his level. My organs may have been disheveled, or even turning inside-out, but my spine is unshakeable. I did know what had to be done, and there seemed to be little point in wasting any time doing it; but first, I had to be peeled off of the bed.

Dear, sweet, relentless Sam is a little shorter than me but stronger than me in every sense of the word, especially in the Department of Emotions. No matter how shitty her family treats her, or what some scum of a boy might choose to love over her, or how her sometimes-delicate immune system might attempt to ravage her insides, she always comes out on top. I am amazed by her wisdom and strength and I treasure her patience and candor. So at such a fragile moment in my life, Sam was the most invaluable person to have on hand.

I had no appetite and wanted to spend the day prostrate on her bed, slowly growing dizzy from asphyxiation-by-pillow. Sam knew I needed food and sunshine—neither of which were going to be found anywhere near her headboard. She rolled out of bed and took a shower, giving me time to process and organize my emotions into safe little packets so that they wouldn’t accidentally meld together to create some extremely volatile mixture. When she came out of the bathroom and changed into fresh clothes, she stood at the foot of the bed with her hands on her hips and stared at me disapprovingly. I felt her stare and knew the face well, so I grunted something that was supposed to be understood as “not now; go away.”

Guttural Morse code seems to be easily misinterpreted, because Sam never responds to my grunts in the way in which I want. She immediately marched over to the side of the bed, wrapped her little white fingers around my limp wrist, braced one foot on the bed frame, and tugged with all her might. I budged. She huffed, dissatisfied with her results. She started to brace herself against the bed again when I turned my head toward her and moaned, “Nooo… stop… I’ll get up, I swear.” Her grip loosened but she knew better than to let go completely. She waited for movement that I initiated instead of endured; she counted to three; she tightened her grip; and I moaned again. “Okaaay, I heard youuu… I’m getting up, just hold on…” She dropped my wrist and stepped back from the bed and watched me like a hawk. I budged just enough for her to hesitate before swooping in again.

“You know you have to get up. This is getting ridiculous.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to let him ruin you this easily?”

“No.”

“Sure as hell looks like you are.”

“I’m not, I just need to lay here a bit longer.”

“No, you don’t. What you need is some soap, and then some coffee, and then some fresh air.”

“No, not the soap. Please not the soap. Anything but the soap.”

At this, drill sergeant Sam cracked a smile. Then I snorted a little. Then we both got so tickled that we just started laughing and snorting and honking for a good ten minutes before we could get our composure again. Finally I found enough strength to peel myself off the bed and meander into the bathroom. After a shower and some fresh clothes Sam threw at me from her closet, we went outside. We spent the day being ridiculous. She shot video of me hawking a huge loogie into a tree, and I mixed her a special concoction of chocolate milk, lemonade and fried rice, and dared her to eat (or drink?) it for a dollar. She took a sip and almost gagged and I bought her a new drink as a reward for her bravery. The whole day we behaved like we did in 8th grade when we first became friends. It was strange and exhilarating at the same time.

Later that night I wrote Ben a really long email about all the things he had done over the past months to disappoint himself and me and how my being in denial of it only let the relationship fester like rotting fruit. We had both let it go and I understood that now. I had chosen not to communicate my concerns about the choices he made and when those choices affected me I either made excuses for him, or was pissed until he bribed me with flowers or a new mix CD he had made. I let him down and I let him let me down. It took about a month to get him to understand that I had no intention of ever taking him back and that the relationship was completely unsalvageable. He cried like a baby and I hid from my feelings until I started journaling them. Between Sam and my journal, I survived something I had built up to be insurmountable. I don’t talk to Ben anymore because every once in a while something will remind me of how nauseatingly angry he made me, so I still need to work through that. Last I heard, he has no job, no diploma, and is day dreaming about climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. God only knows where he got that great idea from, but kudos to him if he actually gets off his ass and does it some day.