July 10, 2000

So, I was listening to all the old messages on my answering machine in an unsuccessful attempt to find the phone number of this guy in Boston with whom I desperately needed to speak because he is just the funniest thing in pants, and I happened upon a really old message from the ex. Really old, as in, from before we broke up. And there was all this sweetness in his voice, and genuine disappointment that I wasn't home, and he ended the message, as he ended all his messages back then, with the words, "I love you," and at that point I stopped looking for the message with the phone number of the funny pants man, and just sat there and cried.

That was a couple of hours ago. I have stopped crying and am now listening to The Magnetic Fields' 69 Love Songs, Vol. 1, which, as you might have guessed, is a CD full of bittersweet relationship ditties, heavy on the bitter, light on the sweet.

Masochistic much? Wait. It gets better.

I borrowed the CD from the ex's apartment on Friday night. He was not there. He was in Italy, as he is now, and as he will be for the next two weeks. I have keys to his apartment, because he gave them to me. He gave them to me because he trusts me, and he wanted someone to have keys in case he suddenly remembered that he left the oven on, or to let the hookers in to wait for him upon his return. These are important matters, and I was touched that he would let his borderline psychotic ex-girlfriend have access to his apartment and all his worldly possessions, including some very nice bath products and a delicious rawhide chew toy, while he was out of the country.

I went there on Friday mostly because I could. I hadn't been there since we broke up, and that is where we broke up. What better way to spend a Friday night than hanging out in my ex's apartment and reliving the night we broke each other's hearts? Never mind that that's not really what happened -- that it was really quite an amicable break-up -- and there really aren't any terrible memories housed within those walls. It's all about the drama, and if there isn't any drama to be had, by gum, I'll fabricate some. I mean, damn, it was Friday night. I had to entertain myself somehow.

So, I wandered through his apartment, smelling the air to see if it smelled the same as I remembered. It did. I used his bathroom and checked to see if the toothbrush I had used was still there. It wasn't. I noticed new soaps, new shampoos, a new book by the toilet. The same shower curtain. The same green frog on the sink. The same robe on the back of the door. If I was going to cry at all during my stay there, it would have been then. But, I didn't. I tried. Tried to create a moment. But, well, when you try…

I hung around for a little while, played some Bubble Trouble, which I've only ever played at his place and which I was supremely addicted to, and then left. I walked around the block and found myself taking an inadvertent tour of all the places we had fights. Well, not all the places. There were a lot. A lot of fights.

But then I saw the Three of Cups, and remembered the brunch we had there last summer, the day after the Knicks had just somehow, incredibly, miraculously, aided by angels (and Marcus Camby), beaten Indiana and advanced to the finals. Such a great day. We got the Post, making bets on what the back-page headline would be. I was leaning toward "Hou-Stunned!" He was betting on "Camby Can Do!" or some such monstrosity.

What the headline actually was, I don't recall, but I do recall that it was a really good day. We had Jack the Dog with us, and he tried to eat the bits of bacon we carelessly let fall to the ground, as well as the occasional small child. Jack the Dog, who, after our initial antagonistic meeting, during which we played a game that entailed Jack trying to separate my hand from my arm, loved me adamantly and unconditionally.

Jack the Dog, who Fish is trying to find a new home for.

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