The Greatest Breakup Ever Told
For a long time, I was dating Guthrie's cousin, a cute little chickie-boo named Michele. Michele was built to my standards; thick and dark-haired, with a cryptic little smile that upturned around the edges as if she knew more than you ever would.
She had thin lips I could kiss for hours, and did, and a strong grip which held me close without crushing me. She dressed in a way I found charming, even though there wasn't anything that unique about it; it just suited her. And I was totally in love with her.
Michele was the kind of woman who I just wasn't ready for yet; she was mostly internal, and silent, and smart as all hell, whereas I was Mister Out-Loud, bringing everything before as many people as possible. We could talk for hours, cuddling in the darkness as she played me all of her Laurie Anderson tapes... But whenever there was silence, I had to ask the dumb question that's plagued me all my life:
"Do you love me?"
I knew back then that answering the question twenty times a night, and then proving it again with actions later in the day, wore Michele out... But I couldn't stop asking. I needed to hear it. And then she'd get irritated, and snap at me, and then I'd look at her like a lost puppydog, which only served to piss her off further.
But strangely enough, Michele was the first woman to make me feel strong, because she trusted me. When we went to parties, she wandered off alone to socialize with other people as opposed to clinging to my side and holding my hand. Having suffered through a long string of possessive girlfriends who liked to hang on to my side wherever I went, the idea that someone could just go away and leave me alone when we were with friends was a wonderful idea.
And then I could look over, and see her laughing and making other people laugh in turn, and it made me proud. I thought, That's her. She's dating me. I must be worth something. And when she came back to me at the end of the party and held my hand, it was always fireworks of love, exploding in my brain. She chose me, she chose me, she chose me.
We had an open relationship, and I was supposed to tell her when I had something on the side, but I didn't. (I only told her about my two affairs when she finally took someone else on the side, to which her reply was a distant and stunned "Oh.") We argued a lot, mostly because I was just too demanding - I always needed her to answer the question of how much she loved me, and then she had to prove it, and when she refused it was as firm as a teacher's hand on my shoulder. No.
I could practically feel the newspaper bouncing off my nose.
But she loved me deep down - and when she favored me with that little unfathomable grin, somehow I knew that she had found a way to like me despite the fact that I was a ball of neuroses. She didn't put up with any more of my shit than she had to, but she never stopped loving me.
She didn't take that away. Ever. And that still makes me tear up today.
One day, after a particularly bad fight that culminated in me being a damn-near perfect asshole in front of her family, we separated. We had a long talk, and I realized that though in theory I liked the "go separate ways at a party" idea, Michele was actually ignoring me at parties. I knew why she wanted to do it; the idea of closeness scared her, and she didn't want to acknowledge me as a boyfriend - even if she'd say I was her boyfriend if asked. (She was scrupulously honest.) And while I could take a low level of affection, Michele ramped up her alienation at gatherings to pretend that I didn't exist.
I wrote a long letter, which I keep on my hard drive to this day, wherein I said, "Look. I need more attention from you. I know you want separateness, and I can respect that, but I need you to hold my hand at parties sometimes. I want the kiss at the door. I don't need all of it, but I don't need you to shy away from every sign of human affection. That's part of what's driving me crazy. If you do that, I will try to be better about bugging you."
She came down to the train station. I met her as she got off the train, and she smiled all wide and hugged me, and I told her I had a note to read. Her face fell. We got into the car and she read it by dashboard light, and then she looked me in the eyes and said words that I will never forget.
"No," she said quietly, her eyes as clear as crystal. "I can't do that."
"So I guess it's over?"
She cried a little. "Yeah."
We hugged, and said we were sorry not to see it work out, and she got back on the next train and went home. I never saw her again.
But to this day, she was the best breakup I ever had. It was something so strong that only Michele could have done it. I asked her a question, and there was no bullshit, no promises she couldn't keep, no negotiation; I had touched on a central issue, and she was unwilling to give in.
And she left.
Four years later, I went to a Laurie Anderson concert, and I got backstage because I knew the producers. I had Laurie sign my ticket for Michele - Michele had all of Laurie's albums, and always wanted to meet her - and I put it in my wallet. It's still there, six years later, a token of my affection she may never receive.
But I won't throw it out. A part of me is still hers, will always be hers, and this is my payment. My gift for her, waiting for the time to be unlocked.