breakups and fallbacks

Its late, and I've been up all evening watching TV. Brandon went to bed already and I just don't feel that tired. I'm writing a 'personal narrative essay' for English, and I decided to write it about Justin Cooper, a guy that I had a short and strange relationship with about two years ago. He's part of the reason that me and another one of my boyfriends (Jeez, how many does one girl need?), Rafael, broke up.

I still think about him sometimes and how trippy the experience was, but I've been really bothered in the writing of this story. The thing is, I instinctively wrote that he had blue eyes, without thinking of it, and then, while reading it over, I wasn't sure. And the thing is, I can't remember. I wonder if maybe I thought he did because quite a few people that I've liked, Brandon included, have blue eyes, and so they've been a popular topic of my poetry and other writing. I guess I like the idea that I can't remember, because it makes me think that it doesn't really mean that much to me.

The thing is, before Justin, I had never really felt that classic heartbreak before. When things broke up between Brandon and I, years ago, I was upset. I was angry and confused and frustrated, but I didn't have that period of time where you just want to crawl under something and never move again. I didn't have that tearing feeling inside me, and I didn't cry my heart out... I just made due, and moved on. When Raf and I broke up, I had this feeling inside me that it was only temporary. After all, we broke up on the terms of a 'break'. I thought I'd be young for a while, live my life... and then some day I'd make my way back to him. I never expected to end up in such a serious committed relationship. But here I am. Anyway, looking back on what happened that summer makes me feel like a really stupid little girl, but... Live and learn, right?

Anyway, I thought I'd share the story, as it is so far, with whoever is listening.

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It was a hot, muggy summer, plagued with thunderstorms and drinking teens who screamed recklessly into the night below my window. I lived in Southern Ontario, in a tiny town by the name of Grand Bend. The population here swelled from 2,000 in the winter time to around 50,000 in the summer. I lived and worked on Main Street, party-central for every college student in Southern Ontario. The street consisted of an array of bars, restaurants, clothing and souvenir shops meant to suck up every possible dime of the summer, before their owners fled south to avoid the lonely, biting frost. The line of shops lead down to the dazzling water front, a man-made beach on Lake Huron. Though the noise rose steadily through the night and kept me lying awake until the wee hours of the morning, I didn’t resent it too much, because I had spent a long, bitter winter alone.

The loneliness has crept up on me in the winter months, and I had hardly realized it until I began to see people again. I wasn’t used to long, cold, school-less, friendless winters, and I was rather pleased that this one had come to an end.

I had two jobs that summer. One at a swim suit store, and another in my Mother’s art studio. The studio was where I went to enjoy the bustle of Main Street, without actually having to be part of it. It was just slightly withdrawn from the action, just enough to see it all go by, and watch unnoticed. Not many people came in, but the ones who did always had praise for our art.

My story starts there, at the studio, while I worked on a particularly frustrating watercolor. I had a kitten named Sola, that summer, that I was trying to find a home for. She often came with me to the studio. She was a beautiful cat--white with a few brown and gray spots. I had her in a harness so that she wouldn’t roam any further than a few feet from my chair. Naturally, of course, she would entangle herself relentlessly with the furniture and claw at my legs at every chance.

Why so much about the cat, you ask? The cat is actually important, believe it or not, because of what happened right then.

“Oh, cute kitty,” I heard a voice say, and I was pulled from my concentration. Looking up, I caught a glance of two boys, near my age. Both were dressed in black with typical dye-jobs and assorted piercings. I smiled.

“Her name is Sola,” I said. “She’s up for adoption, if you’re interested.”

The memory is hazy now, a few years later, but I remember his eyes. They were sparkling and alive, and I liked the way they smiled.

“Hi there,” My mom chimed in, breaking my trance. She told them to come back sometime and check out our studio. I didn’t think much of it after that, until he, the one with the pretty eyes, did come back.

It was the next day, I think, or maybe a couple days later. He came in and we exchanged “Hello’s” but I kept working. My mom started talking to him, asking his name and where he was from. She got him to sit down and make a drawing. I felt his eyes on me while I worked, and I peered up at his drawing. It was a hand in soft pencil, slightly disproportionate. He told me he wasn’t very good at drawing, so I gave him some pointers and we got talking.

“Why don’t you two go for a walk?” My mom suggested randomly. I remember half-resenting her for it, but I took the walk anyway.

Grand Bend is essentially one street, with a distinct beginning and end, so its not hard to walk the length of it. We wandered down to the waterfront and back again, and back down again. We chatted a lot... mostly arbitrary things, but it felt natural. The second time that we reached the beach, we stayed there, sat in the sand and watched the waves go. The sun began to set, and we watched it sink slowly below the earth, burning red and glittering on the lake. It started to get cold. Kooper, thats his name by the way, gave me his hoodie. I remember how it smelled like him and felt warm on my skin. That evening doesn’t really have an ending in my mind. We’re just there, sitting, watching it get darker and darker forever.

After that, it all went quickly. He visited and took me on walks for the next few days, he bought me an ice cream. I said he didn’t have to, but he insisted. He said he had too much money and nothing to spend it on. I accepted.

When we talked, he seemed sincere. Quiet, nervous, maybe a little bit shy. We got to talking about more serious things: relationships, family, life. He said there had been a girl in his life but he’d given up on it because it had been unrequited love. I felt for him, but I didn’t think much of it.

Over our talks, more things came out. He’d had a troubled childhood, an alcoholic father. He’d been abused, and started drinking himself. He had stopped by then, though. His father was gone and he lived with his mother and four sisters. His mother was overbearing. This was one of the reasons that his visits were erratic and why he was careful of who saw us together. Kooper’s story developed bit by bit, which is why, I guess, I never noticed.

Most of our time together was spent on the beach, both in the evening and during the day. The sand was hot and the sun beat down on us during the day. It was glorious. Kooper, though, would wear his black shirt and his black pants and his black hoodie. I teased him for it, sitting on the beach surrounded by bikinis in his funeral gear. But, he was stubborn. We shared our music with each other and talked, and I remember a great deal of my brain power was being used up simply staring at and studying every inch of his face. He was very attractive underneath the heavy black bangs. He was pale, and his face sculptured and strong-featured. He had soft lips and barely visible blonde eyebrows. I often wondered what he would look like if his hair was left natural and blonde. He had an eyebrow, lip and nose piercing. He said he pierced all the parts of himself that he didn’t like.

One night he came to me and brought me a flower. I pressed it in a book and laminated it. I still have it somewhere.

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And thats all I have for you, today.

I dont know if anyone cares about my breakups and fallbacks, but...

If you do, here I am.