In August 2005, my roommate decided to move back home to Frederick, MD – a place often jokingly referred to as Fred-Neck because of its rural and conservative philosophy. So I threw him a “redneck party” for his going away: dress like a hillbilly and drink from the keg for free. Lisa wasn’t invited, but she showed up anyway.
At about 11pm the party was pulsing and everyone was enjoying their last night with my popular roommate. It gave me great pleasure to be able to send him off this way; he had been a good friend.
Then, without so much as a knock, Lisa barged in (the first time at my place in months), all tricked out with a shiny nylon halter top and a pound of makeup. I guess she had just come from the club. I guess she couldn’t find anyone there to love her for a night.
I told her that she had to leave, but she wanted to plead with me instead. I didn’t really think it was appropriate to speak with her in the crowd so I took her to my master bedroom at the end of the hallway and closed the door.
I had to hold her upright; drunkenness destroyed her balance. She began tracing her lips on my neck and ear and telling me how sorry she was – how much she missed me – how much she loved me.
And for a moment I believed her when she began to disrobe. I wanted it to be true. I was so alone.
But I stopped us. If she was indeed genuine in this desire to be with me (we had never actually done anything sexual) then she would stay all night and we could be close later. It was my friend’s going away party. I was the host. I didn’t want to forsake him or anyone else by getting with her.
Lisa put her top back on and raged. “Why don’t you care about me, Dario? Why do you treat me like s***?”
And I clenched my fists in anger, too. I’m sure no one else in her entire life had bought her flowers at her work. I’m sure no one else had ever tucked her in or walked away after she threw herself at them.
I’m sure that chaos was all that she knew.
She exited my room, stomping her feet, and tried to make out with the first man she saw. And finally, that was the one unpardonable action that made me ready to let her go forever. The popular opinion of everyone at the party forced her exit shortly thereafter.
I’ve seen her in the years after our fleeting, tumultuous love – sometimes as a guest at the restaurant that I continued working at periodically; sometimes as a fellow patron out on the town. We stared at each other like we still hated one another, but I know that kind of passion can only exist when the feelings still remain.
She has kids and a husband now and I hope that’s what she needs to keep her tame and happy.
My world is more fragile and tenuous. I make a living off of prostituting my struggle in some abstract idea of the power of story – how words can help others and shape the world. I’ve been happy for a time too, but sometimes I don’t know if the alcohol and self-destruction I’ve poisoned into me just works slowly. Sometimes I don’t know if I’ll go into depression remission.
Sometimes I don’t know why I can’t entirely let her go.
Connect with Dario online:
Personal Website (Free Writing, Podcast, Dario in the Media, Biography, Books, Blogs)
20 Something Magazine (Editor-in-Chief, Creator)
JMWW Literary Journal (Senior Nonfiction Editor)
The Veterans Writing Project (Instructor, Nonfiction Editor)
LinkedIn (Professional Stuff)
Facebook (Be my friend?)
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