Dating an older man long distance
“You’re a teenager,” he’d say jokingly, and I felt like one. I was still drifting and trying to play catch up, which was proving difficult.I couldn’t even trump him with my decision to move to New York — he had already lived there. My life felt dull and predictable compared with R.’s; clean, compartmentalized, and distinctly lacking in gritty residue.Suddenly I longed for the messy details his life was overflowing with.And as I realized I wanted to emulate him, to become more impetuous and boldly embrace the disasters and upsets, the snags and impediments, I became aware of something else too.I rolled off the bed and ran a bath for both of us. One night we met my ex, his best friend, the one who had introduced us.Leaving him to grow wrinkled, I threw on a light dress and got ready. He had taken the news of our relationship well initially, but that evening was a different story. Without provocation, he made a snide remark about R.’s salary, or, more accurately, the lack thereof. He clearly wanted to feel some semblance of an upper hand, but really, he needed only to wait a few more weeks. and I split up as my job in New York became a reality.
They’ve already checked that period off their list — or at least, he had. got in a bike accident, a collision with a car that sent him flying and broke several ribs. It was May, but the sand still had the coolness of spring.We paddled in waves, drank wine, and savored our solitude. We ate ice cream and with sticky fingers returned to our hotel room. “I I’ve never seen shoes that bright before.” I frowned. I studied them closely, and they cheap and impulsive. “No.” But by then the wine had sedated me, mellowed me out a bit.We kissed, before simultaneously noticing a small bird perched outside, watching quizzically. I was on top of him, moving carefully, when he winced and reached for painkillers. Suddenly, with absolute certainty, I despised them, and they didn’t like me either, pinching at my feet like small pecking birds. Like his "teenager" comments, he'd turned me against myself. Our conversations were usually fun and meandering, but now, I started arguments for the sake of it. The shoes were still technically on my feet, but had already mentally been discarded, never to be worn again. “No one ever argues about what’s actually on their mind.” “I like that theory,” I said, too proud to admit it applied to us an hour earlier.But things weren't the same, I realized with relief. Now I was the one regaling him with tales, talking about the best summer of my life.
In the year since our breakup I had moved to New York, knowing only two people, and thrown myself into new experiences, saying yes to every invitation until I was exhausted, but finally driven, no longer directionless. had highlighted what I was seeking in my own life, a life that had felt decidedly sanitized and predictable compared with his. I couldn’t see the future on that September night, how much worse it would get before it would gradually improve, and keep on improving.She cooked roast duck and I enjoyed it enough to ask for the recipe. I watched her boyfriend that weekend furtively, guiltily, and felt I wasn’t deserving of her duck recipe or her kindness. We were discussing bands when he invited me over to download music. I arrived to discover it was still their apartment.