You went through your friendships so fast, perhaps I should consider myself lucky that ours lasted as long as it did. When we first got together, our affection for one another verged on the homoerotic, the childhood crush of two grown men so happy to have the other that all people, even women, were pointless distractions to our laser-like intensity. When I read “Brideshead Revisited,” I saw our relationship in Charles and Sebastian, and recalled those days with a pit of fondness in my stomach.
But the pendulum is a nasty beast, and swung as far backward. I couldn’t believe the vitriol that flew out of you, the way you took things said at 4am in a rapturous, delirious, slumber-party-like confidence and then offered them to the people we once ridiculed. Betrayal doesn’t begin to encompass my feelings, in fact, I thought I might be going crazy. I had never known a reality so distorted – I was there, I saw the same things, or had I? – but you quickly divested me of any quick trusts for the rest of my life. Perhaps I need to thank you for that.
Years later, when we saw each other again, you didn’t even register that this had happened, just continued on as if we were old friends, another Crazy Summer, another hoops game with patronizing advice. When I moved to your town, you did your best, but I no longer fit the suit, it was much too large for me in my older, more angular form. There was only so much forced conversation I could take.
Do you remember me? I was the one who understood before your sentence was finished. I was there when the dreams were being constructed from the basement up. The clich holds that women are the mercurial ones, mystical beasts that can be catty, possessive, mean-spirited, and emotionally uncontrollable, but guess what? They don’t have a thing on you.