Dear Ex-Boyfriend,

And I use the word “boyfriend” even though you insisted adamantly that we were just “going out” – and while I will concede that the use of the word “lover” just makes my skin crawl and the word “partner” should apply only to “business” or “tennis”, I do think that a relationship of three years, nine months and fourteen days constitutes more than just “going out”. So I am choosing to use the word “boyfriend”. The word “ex” was your choice.

I am returning your sweater that I found behind my living room couch. That same IKEA couch on which you ate all those late night meals that I had prepared for you when you were too tired to cook for yourself, all the while watching countless seasons of “Highlander”, “Battlestar Galactica” and “Keeping Up With The Kardashians”. That same pull-out couch on which when we were first dating – we’d tear off each others clothes like a pair of horny Baptist teenagers whose unsuspecting parents would soon return from their weekly bible study – often not even making it to the bedroom, a mere fifteen feet away. Or – towards the end of our relationship, when you were too tired, or it had been yet another one of those days or simply if you were just “not into it” – it was on that same pale gray couch you would begrudgingly allow me to slip your pants down around your ankles and service you with my hand as you flipped through the late night television line-up.

As for the sweater, I have taken the liberty of washing it. Cold water. Air-dried. Not good as new but it is certainly in better condition than when I found it. Although I will confess, I did sleep with it that first night, holding it close to my naked body, trying to inhale what was left of your scent into my nostrils. That all to familiar smell of Calvin Klein’s Eternity and Marlboro Lights. But sadly, any trace of you was now long gone. Of course, as practical a person as you have always been, I am sure that once you realized that this particular article of clothing was gone from your wardrobe, you replaced it immediately. Perhaps this was what you were doing when I saw last Saturday afternoon coming out of Abercrombie and Fitch with your new friend Korey, With a “K”. You smiling awkwardly. Feet shuffling nervously side to side to side. Hands full of shopping bags. American Eagle. Hollister. Pacific Sunwear Company. “I’m just helping him pick out a few things for his new job” you explain. “Something with computers” Korey mumbles, not even looking up from his phone.

I see.

Now, if you will permit me here just the one unsolicited word of advice. I think under the circumstances, it’s the least I’m entitled to. When picking out matching his and his outfits, do be careful that the effect is cute rather than creepy. For you see, it’s one thing to emulate those happy gay couples that one sees in the Advocate in their matching madras shorts skipping through the waves on Fire Island and quite another to resemble the models from the “June 17th is Father’s Day!” in the J.C. Penny’s circular of your local Sunday paper. But I shouldn’t worry about what people think too much. I noticed only a minor age difference in your ages of only twenty or some odd years.

Naturally, I wish you nothing but the best for you and your new friend. And judging by the abundance of the day’s purchases, not to mention his perfectly round ass poured into those jeans, I’m sure the two of you will be very happy together. At least until the last of your profit share this quarter has been spent. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I realize that sounds a little bitter and I sincerely apologize. I’m sorry. Certainly no man our age wants to think that he has been taken advantage of. Do we? As for me, I genuinely hope that I was able to give you even half as much when we were together.

Perhaps it was on that night in February when your kidney stones were so bad that you threw up all over my brand new five hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sheets and I sat up the rest of the night with you as you were curled in a fetal position on my bathroom floor, knowing that I had a client presentation that morning and in retrospect may have lost the account due to a lack of sleep. Or that one rainy September afternoon I drove you to the vet when you had to put your cat down and held you later in my arms as you sobbed uncontrollably in the parking lot as Stevie Nicks played on the radio. Or that morning you got the phone call that your sister had died.

And as we stood there in silence for a moment on the second floor of the Briarwood Towne Center mall, the saccharine smell of Orange Julius and Cinnabun hanging low in the air, you looked at me with those same sad green eyes – the same ones that had caught my attention that night we met and then slowly, in an awkward attempt at some form of closure – you whispered softly to me, “I never wanted to hurt you.” – before you and Korey walked quickly down the concourse towards Neiman Marcus, only to disappear into Hot Topic. Not even once turning around to look back over at your shoulder at me.

Never wanted to hurt me? You fucking bastard. Here’s a suggestion. Next time, don’t break up with someone via text message. Four years and I don’t deserve the common courtesy of at least one last dinner? A cup of coffee? A simple phone call? A forty-seven year old man acting like he’s in god damned high school. You fucking coward. You son of a bitch motherfucker cock-sucking asshole, I hope you rot in …

 

 

J –
Here is your sweater that I found the other day when cleaning my apartment. Hope this finds you well.
R.