There’s no poetic way to exit a badly drawn relationship. When all the alcohol in your system drips out along with the sweat from packing as fast as you can, sobriety reminds you of the inevitable: it’s over. We don’t have to fight anymore. I stopped trembling. The latter feels more worthy of celebration.
I’m trading in Cab country for Pinot vines as I bid farewell to Napa with Oregon on the horizon. After all, it’s difficult to find a decent glass of Pinot in California. I turned thirty-three and with that kind of alliteration it feels appropriate to begin again. The car is packed, boxes have been sent for storage and as the dreams I once held slowly lose their grip, new ones find perch in my imagination.
Tears stop populating my day and the past transforms itself into snapshots or short clips or empty paraphrases. We were not a good match. It’s all for the best. My Morning Jacket. Remember peanut & butter sandwiches in the vineyard under the stars? Waking up together was my favorite. He always made me tea to take to work. We laughed a lot. Tequilla. He thought I was irrational. Who knew drug addict could feel so safe? Cat Power. Clove cigarettes dipped in hash oil. Broken heart. Red meat. It’s better this all happened sooner than ten years into the relationship. A limited love.
The exit rows are clearly marked.