Column II: The Second Breakup Along The Hudson
There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from making yourself small so a man can feel big, even though there is nothing big about him down there.
We spend so much time curating our lives, our bodies, and our truths, some lies, only to fold ourselves into tiny fucked up boxes the second an average looking guy with a steady income walks into the room.
Finals week just ended.
"You are essentially cosplaying as a tradwife, but how can you really do that Sloane," my friend Blossom told me over FaceTime, adjusting her wire-rimmed glasses. Blossom, the geeky lesbian, views every one of my relationships, or should we say situationships, as a tragic failure of feminist theory. "You're transitioning into a woman, Sloane, not a prop. Why are you performing for a taurus in a Honda? He can’t make you a tradwife, just the wife of smelly broke trade."
She wasn't wrong at all. For four months, I found myself pleasing Leon grounded needs, performing all night; into the wake of dawn.
This week, I made sure to kiss it Friday, Saturday, Sunday, until Monday’s morning. To the beat of the drum, I let myself become hypnotized by him. Like the stroke of the strings on a violin, I moaned into his chest. The weekend was the quickest it had been in weeks. My droughts had formulated over the weeks while spring descended into the summer’s breeze. I allowed myself to enjoy the beginning of a new story and bath into its final chapter. In order to kiss myself, I had to breathe into chapter 0.
It started on Friday when he drove down in his new Honda to my home along the Hudson. I watched my boyfriend through the brown windows. He was sharp, motivated, and calm. But trust, he could partake in the occasional roars. And, my outburst made him eager, horny, and hard. Leon was stubborn, so damn stubborn.
By Saturday’s morning, it was obvious that he was fine with me. His ease into comfort was always remarkable. He laid next to me while I, like Barbie, daydreamed. I wasn’t too shy of a person but only shy when trying not to make others cry, staying in doll form. I was getting used to being a blunt girl but it all just ended in me being burned and remember a girl should be quiet. I moved his motivated arm around me; I got cold. The spring’s sunlight beamed on my back as he rubbed his fingers upon my arch. In the beginning, we dreamt of wedding arches on the first night. Now I am terrified of them.
He yawned to match my same feeling. I was laying flat-chested with my ass up on green sheets: searching for a green feeling or to be tossed.
Sunday morning, he finally left. He said he would return at night and I rolled my eyes. All through the aged, burgundy living room, window frames, I watched the day. I stared out at the people traveling down the suburban path; then, I studied the blowing leaves while crying at the glass.
A boy will always be a boy and I will always need to be true to myself.
That night, he returned with a simple outfit for a simple earth sign. He smiled; I tried as well. A frown appeared instead. I couldn’t hide those sincere thoughts with arbitrary feelings any longer. I found myself stumbling through the apartment with him holding my hand from behind, bowing my head and passing the bathroom, two bedrooms, and the kitchen before taking a deep breath to enter my room. I finally allowed myself to frown as well. I felt something deep inside, so I held his hand tightly with watery red eyes. From the pulse of his hand, my heart matched the beat, but something felt a little different. It was what my eyes showed before me, I knew I had to get moving forward.
Hopefully I will be spared.
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