I'm slowly catching up.
The flight was bumpy, not only due to turbulence but due to the old man two seats over, who spent the majority of his time trying to express how racist Australians are. The old bastard wouldn't let me sleep (not that I would've had much luck anyway), and kept handing me newspapers and making comments every time I felt like I was just on the verge of unconsciousness.
We landed, and I knew it was Australia by the airport workers wearing nothing but shorts and fluorescent vests, sitting on eskies and in their airport buggy cart things with their arms behind their heads, most likely chatting about footy. I almost died when passport control greeted me warmly, and smiled and laughed and were just, well, nice, because that isn't the way in other places.
And exBF was on the other side of customs. He hugged me so tightly I thought I'd break, and we got in his car and started driving to his (and my old) house.
And then he started.
He was always melodramatic. If he stubbed his toe, he'd complain about it for days, and say that it was possible he might have to have it amputated, and how agonisingly painful it was. When he went to the gym, he'd complain that he'd done so much that he couldn't move at all, and every time he took a step he'd let out a loud wail and groan, and look at me desperately for sympathy.
If he had a bad day at work, he'd tell me a fantasty-laden story in which he was the hero/martyr, and soon after I'd discover how much he'd embellished. So when I asked him how he'd been, he looked me in the eyes and said, "Bad. Really, REALLY bad."
And that was the start.
We arrived at the house and it was so incredibly familiar, and we chatted pleasantly enough about travel and cracked lines from Team America: World Police. I found my guitar and hugged it tightly, before pulling it out of its hard case.
"My neighbour came over and really wanted to play it, but I said no," he said, and I looked at the dust all over it and wondered why he was lying. I sat it on my knee, a well of eager anticipation inside me, and plucked the first string to begin tuning.
And he TURNED THE VOLUME UP ON THE TV.
In one fell swoop, I was transported back in time. Just like that, I remembered why I couldn't be with him anymore. I looked at him and said, "I'm going outside," and he shrugged and said, "ok".
The pain came when I saw the photos of us sitting on his desk. That bit hurt. Knowing he hadn't moved on hurt. But being apart from him, and knowing we weren't right for eachother - that bit became a hell of a lot easier.
We landed, and I knew it was Australia by the airport workers wearing nothing but shorts and fluorescent vests, sitting on eskies and in their airport buggy cart things with their arms behind their heads, most likely chatting about footy. I almost died when passport control greeted me warmly, and smiled and laughed and were just, well, nice, because that isn't the way in other places.
And exBF was on the other side of customs. He hugged me so tightly I thought I'd break, and we got in his car and started driving to his (and my old) house.
And then he started.
He was always melodramatic. If he stubbed his toe, he'd complain about it for days, and say that it was possible he might have to have it amputated, and how agonisingly painful it was. When he went to the gym, he'd complain that he'd done so much that he couldn't move at all, and every time he took a step he'd let out a loud wail and groan, and look at me desperately for sympathy.
If he had a bad day at work, he'd tell me a fantasty-laden story in which he was the hero/martyr, and soon after I'd discover how much he'd embellished. So when I asked him how he'd been, he looked me in the eyes and said, "Bad. Really, REALLY bad."
And that was the start.
We arrived at the house and it was so incredibly familiar, and we chatted pleasantly enough about travel and cracked lines from Team America: World Police. I found my guitar and hugged it tightly, before pulling it out of its hard case.
"My neighbour came over and really wanted to play it, but I said no," he said, and I looked at the dust all over it and wondered why he was lying. I sat it on my knee, a well of eager anticipation inside me, and plucked the first string to begin tuning.
And he TURNED THE VOLUME UP ON THE TV.
In one fell swoop, I was transported back in time. Just like that, I remembered why I couldn't be with him anymore. I looked at him and said, "I'm going outside," and he shrugged and said, "ok".
The pain came when I saw the photos of us sitting on his desk. That bit hurt. Knowing he hadn't moved on hurt. But being apart from him, and knowing we weren't right for eachother - that bit became a hell of a lot easier.
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