The Glass Before Me

He’s supposed to be here.

I’m not supposed to be drinking this Merlot by myself.

Three months ago, we talked about this night for hours over text. We planned out every detail of this perfect date. Our first date—our first “real” date—after quarantine ended and restaurants reopened. We talked about sitting in this classic Italian restaurant together, how we loved the vines that crept up the brick and stucco walls. We’d sit on the patio with the golden lights hanging overhead. The light would shine in his perfect eyes. He’d take my hand in his. His hand would fit mine perfectly. It always did.

We’d share a bottle of Merlot while waiting for impeccably dressed waiters to bring a plate of calamari and a margherita flatbread (and maybe even a slice chocolate cake). The conversations of the happy couples sitting all around us would fill the air, but we wouldn’t hear any of it. It would feel like nothing existed but him and me. Just us.

But now the conversations of those happy couples are loud, distracting. It’s hard to not feel jealous. I look over and then wish I didn’t. They all look so happy, so beautiful, so perfect. They look at each other the same way I looked at him, the same way he looked at me.

I realize that I must be so conspicuous, sitting alone. Pathetic. Pitiful. My cheeks burn with shame. I know they’ve turned red. They always do when I’m embarrassed. I figure that they’ve flushed a red so deep, it rivals the color of the untouched wine sitting in the glass before me.

I’m not supposed to be blushing red because I’m embarrassed about sitting alone. I’m supposed to be blushing pink because of something he said, something hopelessly romantic, something that makes me melt.

The Merlot in its glass stares back at me and it’s so red, it’s the red of his warm embrace; the red of the hands that memorized my body; the red of the kisses he placed along my neck; the red of our passion, the red of the fire that burned inside us, the red of the lust that flashed in our eyes; the red of his mouth on mine and the red of that moment when we were one.

The moment I heard him say something under his breath, something that sounded so much like “I love you.”

I believe he meant it. But I know that people say things in the moment that they won’t say when they’re out of it.

I wish I said it back to him. Those three words. But I wasn’t sure that’s what he said.

I never said it, but I meant it, so I found so many ways to tell him without saying those three words.

“I adore you.” “You mean the world to me.” “I care about you so much.”

“I’m so lucky to know you.”

I’m not so sure about that last one anymore.

I didn’t want to drive him away, so I never told him I loved him. But I know I always did.

I’m afraid I always will.

He’s supposed to be here. He’s supposed to be sitting across from me. He’s supposed to be looking at me like I’m the most beautiful girl in the world.

He said I was the most beautiful girl in the world. I remember.

I remember when I was trying on dresses, sometimes babbling, sometimes teasing. I remember the soft expression on his face. I tried on a dress and asked what he thought. He said, “I think I’m looking at the most beautiful girl in the world.”

I remember when I tried on my new leather jacket with a gold choker and a red lip. He said I looked like the kind of person who walks into a bar and the world stops—then I keep walking, and it resumes.

He said so many wonderful things.

Why do people say things they don’t mean?

No. No, I know he meant it. I know he was more vulnerable with me than with anyone else before. I know he was scared of how vulnerable he was with me. He was scared of how easily I could hurt him. I know because he said so.

I guess he shut me out so he wouldn’t get hurt. I guess it didn’t matter that it would hurt me.

I’m so confused. He said that we both had changed. He’s the one who started this. He believed that this time, it would last. He knew that I would stay. I trusted that he would, too.

I told him, “I’m all yours.” He said he was all mine.

He knew that I was his. I guess he was never really mine.

Three days ago, he closed a door and locked it. I was left standing on the doorstep. He wouldn’t even talk to me.

I’m not supposed to be drinking this Merlot by myself. I can’t. I can’t. I need him. I need him in my life. I need to talk to him one more time.

I tried to talk to him one more time. He left me standing alone on his doorstep. The minute he saw it was me, he shut the door and locked it.

I don’t understand. The last time we talked, he said I did nothing wrong.

Before that, when we talked, he would say so many wonderful things. He said so many wonderful things.

He did so many hurtful things.

I’m not supposed to be drinking this Merlot by myself. But I have to.

I can’t do this anymore.

There were so many beautiful moments. But there was so much pain.

There’s so much pain.

I used to blame myself for everything.

I know he says that it’s my fault.

But I know that we’re both at fault. I have accepted the responsibility for my actions. I have been so hard on myself. I don’t know how to forgive myself.

He hasn’t taken responsibility for his actions. He won’t. I’m not sure he ever will.

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep waiting for him to be the person I thought he was. I can’t keep waiting for him to be the person I hoped he would become.

I thought he had changed. I know I had changed. After the first time we fell apart, I made changes to myself and to my life. I had to. I did the work. And I know I’m a better person now. I know that I deserve kindness and respect. I know that I deserve to love myself. I’m learning how to love myself.

He said that if we communicated this time, we could start again and it could work. He wanted me. I wanted him.

I loved him. I believe he loved me.

Maybe.

He once said he doesn’t know what that kind of love feels like. My friends say he may not have the capacity for it. I don’t know.

I believe he loved me. I believe he still loves me.

I don’t know what’s going on inside his head.

I can’t do this anymore. He keeps disappointing me over and over again. He is not the person I thought he was, the person I thought he would be. No one is perfect, but I thought he was perfect for me. I thought he was perfect. He’s not. I keep doing everything I can to fix things. I did everything I could to make it work. I don’t understand why it didn’t. I can’t stand the fact that I don’t know what happened, what changed. I have to accept that I won’t ever know.

Yes, there were so many beautiful moments. But yes, he caused me so much pain. And worse, he made it seem like it was all my fault and I tried to change myself, to be perfect, to do whatever I could, to make sacrifices, just to keep him in my life for a little longer.

I was always scared that he would leave. I was always scared I wasn’t good enough.

He left.

But I am good enough.

So many times, he would cut off communication. He would ignore me and avoid me when he didn’t want to deal with me, when he didn’t want to deal with problems or issues or whatever was going on. He distanced himself from problems instead of actively communicating and trying to solve them. I was willing to do the work, to get through those problems together. But I guess he wasn’t. I guess it was easier for him to ignore me. I guess he thought that if I wasn’t in his life, he couldn’t get hurt and the problems would disappear.

I guess it didn’t matter to him that it would hurt me. I guess he doesn’t respect me enough to talk to me, to even send one text saying that he doesn’t want to talk to me anymore.

I thought he was perfect.

Why is he doing this?

What did I do wrong?

No. Not again. I know what mistakes I made. I know what mistakes he made. I took accountability, I did the work, I am still working to become a better person. He didn’t. He isn’t. He won’t.

I thought he was perfect. He’s not.

I love him so much.

And that’s okay.

That’s okay.

Healing will take time.

I may never forget him. I probably won’t. He is my first love.

He was my first love.

I might always love him. Some part of my heart will always love him.

And that’s okay.

I’m not supposed to be drinking this Merlot by myself. But I will.

The waitress brings the calamari and the flatbread. I’ll finish them both myself. Later, she’ll bring the check, and I’ll pay with my card. Tonight, I’ll go home to my apartment and wrap myself in blankets in my bed, secure under covers that make me feel like I can hide from the world, from the heartache.

I’ll probably sleep with a pillow in my arms. I haven’t yet readjusted to sleeping alone.

It’s a start.

I raise the glass of Merlot to my lips.