In my 20s, I used to write at a French wine bar in San Francisco by candlelight. I couldn’t really afford it; as a young professional with an entry-level office job, I mostly relied on generous discounts from bar staff to keep up a nightly habit of Burgundy and bespoke cheese plates and on nights when finances felt particularly tight — the kind of nights I’d read George Saunders’ “Semplica-Girl Diaries” in The New Yorker on the Muni California 1 in the direction of Presidio and Clay and tear up at the scenes where the protagonist maxes out his Discover Card because the depiction of his finances hit a little too close to home1 — I would look around that bar with anticipatory nostalgia.
One day, I thought, I’ll be a famous writer. And tourists will stop in and say:
So this… this is where she began!2
I frequented that bar for other reasons, of course. The manager, an outwardly grumpy older Frenchman from Normandy named Olivier, visibly lit up whenever I walked in. He would greet me each night with a “toujours aussi belle ?”3 no matter how world-weary I actually looked and place me on display by the windowsill. In a city where romance felt largely dead, I felt protected by his attentive gaze. It was Olivier who first noticed me falling for one of his servers — a dark-haired Parisian with a chiseled jaw line and striking green eyes — and admonished me to never sleep with a Frenchman more than three times. (Once to introduce yourself, once to enjoy, and once to say goodbye.)
And yet.
Maybe it’s silly to think the Parisian fell for my inner life — or, at least, whatever interpretation he conjured of it. All I know is on nights I sat in that windowsill and wrote in a Moleskine notebook illuminated with candlelight, our love affair benefitted from a similar glow. It’s when I moved into his apartment that everything changed; after only three nights together he asked me to leave.
“When your toothbrush is next to mine,” he said. “It’s no longer a fantasy.”
I’ve spent thousands in therapy trying to figure out what those words meant, exactly.
A healer in Berkeley who believes in past lives listened to me cry over that breakup for weeks. She insisted, with a little spiritual work and enough financial investment, I could prepare my soul to match his in a future incarnation. Maybe because I’d maxed out my Amex, I instead came to terms with a more poetic interpretation similar to that put forth by Sabahattin Ali in Madonna in a Fur Coat — namely, that once you have “seen someone as she truly is — once you have accepted reality stripped bare —[…] intimacy is no longer possible.”
Then, of course, there’s always the possibility offered by my current beau who, gazing absentmindedly upon my Oral-B lying in a pool of water just adjacent our bathroom toilet, recently declared:
“The way you store your toothbrush is literally kind of gross.”
“Amex full and Discover nearly full. Called Discover: $200 avail. If we we transfer $200 from checking (once paycheck comes in), would then have $400 avail. on Discover, could get cheetah.”
Mostly, this is where Alicia learned “Write Drunk, Edit Sober” is terrible advice.
Unless I was wearing torn jeans, in which case he politely refrained.
This cracks me up. Chapeau.
What a complete douche! That’s horrible and I am so sorry you held the damage. The current beau is better. He cooked your Thanksgiving cuisine and knows the difference between a sanitation risk and you. Maybe he will gift a stylish vanity set to help prevent transferring bacteria or viruses. (Hint, hint to M) The body is a temple. A dear aunt once told me of all the things you get in life, you only get one set of teeth.
Romance with an expiration date is a farce to me. It may be why I don’t date, and view through gut instinct. I’ve learned my desire given becomes regenerative, and that is a rare match to make. So I be who I am! A gay lion tamer has better odds than myself, as proven.
The seek for love and compatibility served enough lessons through my own experience. Perhaps it is why I have become so skilled at dodging or breaking off the shaft from the arrows or Eros. I have my own set of gray-area mismatches causing wonder in the why at all, though I’ve grown wiser. I’ve learned my deal breakers and the dangers of settling. You, my dear, seem to be doing better with the present tense, so cheers to that.
I must admit, I had my own frying pan to remove from the stove, actually the chaos was more of crawfish boiler intensity. By the time I reached NYC in my mid 20s, I formed an unwavering poker face. What I’ve also learned is regardless of whatever mask I pull, certain arrows can still get through and confronting that which does not degenerate underneath can feel no different than the initial pierce. My stomach spins, opening up a whole other why at all. Signing off, cause this is starting to sound like the journaling I have lined up before my next post. (Watch this become my intro!)
A big hug to you, and if we are ever in the same place and you see that guy, let me know. I no reservations about kneeing him in the groin if you do so desire, or how about a tooth. Cheers, love!