Just Friends – Part Four

You may remember my story “Meet Me in St Louis.”

If you don’t, and you’re too lazy to go read it on getoutmag.com: I fell in love with a lawyer, he moved home to St Louis and broke my heart. Essentially.

It really fucked me up, if I’m honest. I went into a funk. I had trouble getting out of bed in the morning, and I complained about everything. Everyone at my work was tired of me – my boss even said, “If you hate it so much, just leave. No one’s begging you to stay here.” I didn’t want to go out, not even for dinner or a movie. I wasn’t sad, anymore anyway, and I wasn’t mad. I was blank. I felt empty.

A came over one night to cheer me up. I’d been avoiding him for weeks – I didn’t want to be cheered up. I knew nothing would work anyway.

He came over, and we watched a movie, some stupid blockbuster everyone had been talking about, then just sat on my bed and talked. “I’m starting to think I should leave New York,” I pondered out loud.

“What are you talking about?”

“Maybe things just aren’t working out here for me.”

“Because one guy didn’t want to date you?”

I shook my head. In retrospect, I know I sounded like an idiot. But I was the darkest shade of blue. “New York is a place where lonely people come to be lonely.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Is it? You constantly complain about being single, about people blowing you off, about people ghosting. Come on A. You aren’t lonely? You don’t feel surrounded by lonely people?”

“I don’t complain about being single. I just don’t like the way a lot of men have treated me.”

“You do complain about it, just like you complain about your job, just like you complain about your roommates. Why don’t you just get a new job? Why don’t you just move the fuck out?” I knew I was hitting him hard, picking at every insecurity I could, but I couldn’t stop myself.

“I can’t listen to you when you’re like this,” he said.

“Too truthful? You can dish out advice and criticism, but you can’t take it yourself?”

A stood up and grabbed his bag, moving for the door. “Maybe I complain,” he said, turning around, “but you’re wallowing, and you’re trying to bring me down with you. And I’m not going down.”

Maybe I was trying to drag him down with me. Maybe he just should have let me avoid him until I was ready to be a real human being again. I don’t know. But I do know that was the beginning of the end of our friendship.