when i was 25, my engagement imploded about a month before my wedding. we were young and seeking; foolish, really. queers who hadn't found the right words yet, bonded in our innate acknowledgement of a thing we shared but lacking language to communicate what that meant to us and for Us, all the while trying to make the prospect of a marriage between Man and Woman work. he ended it, and it shattered me. he was so apologetic, "i think i just needed a friend."
we lived together, but i escaped to coffeehouses and bookstores and friend couches and long stretches of cracked uneven pavement. i made myself a nuisance in my neighbor's apartments, taking comfort in their smoke, their bleach, their booze soaked walls. i wrote terrible poetry and imagined what we'd say ten years on when we realized how foolish we had been and worked on ourselves and still found love for each other in our hearts. when i finally moved out, i left a note on the whiteboard, a scrawling thing about seeds and foundations and surety. that sincerity probably read as madness, but who could blame me, having been so unmoored.
after, i remember feeling so bitter about the forty dollar price tag he left on the engagement ring. i didn't care that it came from wal-mart, but it stung to be reminded of his thoughtlessness and desperation. a christmastime miracle. a hail mary. a gambit for our happiness. i asked my friend to sell my dress for me; she got a good price for it.
i spent what might've been our honeymoon at cannon beach. off-season, first-time-stay at the resort discount. a suite with a nice view and a luxurious bathtub. i dined on seafood and boozy bon bons, drank myself silly on champagne in a golden bubble bath, fantasized about seducing the kid who delivered my room service cheeseburger. the self-indulgence felt correct but didn't heal anything, though perhaps it made up for the stifled weeping that overwhelmed me on the long, lonely jitney ride from the city. though cathartic, my mariah carey, boyz ii men, fiona apple, broken hearted millennial playlist was a touch too effective.
it wasn't until i dragged myself out to the beach in the pouring rain that i felt any relief at all. my insides matched my outsides with soaked jeans and a jacket hood that struggled against the wind. we don't use umbrellas here. i sat myself on a big old log, and watched the surf break around haystack rock. i let myself feel small and stupid. i recalled the night we went to seaside, drinking too much after our show, getting kicked out of the townie bar because our friend was too loudly stealing the silverware. we stood on the beach in the dark and dared each other to walk into the ocean. without the moonlight, we didn't have to see our own limitations; we were just voices, floating in the icy pacific. i wondered if i'd ever get that back.
then someone's dog wandered over, dropped a dead seagull on the sand next to me. the dog lifted its leg. i caught the jitney home and cried again.