Dating : An unwelcome threesome

I think about our first date often. It was a warm summer evening and I sat across from you at the front table of a barcade. I told you stories. Your eyes were on fire the entire night. I could have read the technical manual for a 90s model copy machine but I know the light in your eyes wouldn’t have flickered, even for a moment.

We played arcade games after dinner. I pretended to be competitive so I could brush my arm against yours and jokingly elbow you when you repeatedly kicked my ass at Tetris. (Ok, maybe I am a little competitive.)

That night was perfect. Every night after that night was perfect. We took our time getting to know each other. Our relationship was sweet and innocent and wonderful.

You made stupid excuses to come see me. You took notes about my favorite things when we talked. You went out of your way to buy me flowers. I told you how amazing you were every day. I put too much time into planning silly dates and trips for us, each progressively more fun and intimate than the last.

We celebrated every hour we spent together. We couldn’t get enough.

We celebrated every hour we spent together. We couldn’t get enough.

I still can’t believe how lucky I was to get to know you and experience falling in love with such an incredible, honest person. I remember laying next to you in a twin bed, feeling an overwhelming gratitude for finally receiving the love I had spent more than 30 years putting into the world. Finally. I exhaled small thank-yous to the universe as we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

I feel that gratitude today. I really do. That is very much a truth. But, it’s not the whole truth.

The whole truth is that feeling of gratitude is wedged in between feelings of exhaustion, desperation, and jealousy. Like layers of sentiment in a rock wall, you can still pick out the brightly colored bands of hopefulness, of love, of warm summer evenings, but they are being flattened and spread thin beneath the weight of something else.

Someone else.

She is part of every single conversation we have now. She is in your bed, she is on your skin. She walks with you to work every morning. She sits between us in the car. She texts you whenever we start to kiss. She pushes her long, gray fingers through the gap in our palms whenever we hold hands.

She is part of every single conversation we have now. She is in your bed, she is on your skin. She walks with you to work every morning. She sits between us in the car. She texts you whenever we start to kiss. She pushes her long, gray fingers through the gap in our palms whenever we hold hands.

She makes everything so utterly difficult.

Something that should be as simple as sending a text that says, “How are you?” or choosing a time for a movie turns into an intense, too frequent discussion about her.

Something as small as sharing a string cheese once made the world a thousand times brighter for us. Now, because of her, I have to beg you to eat something, to take care of yourself. Your body is wasting away.

You used to leave me tiny, sweet notes in my room, in my purse, on my desk. She even took those from me. Now, I have to pull everything — information, compliments, the truth — out of your mouth, like pulling a weathered bucket from the bottom of an old well. My arms are tired. My hands get rope burns. Every. Damn. Time.

I have tried everything and anything to get rid of this other woman. I’ve made plans, I’ve canceled plans. I’ve held you while you were breaking down. I’ve sat next to you in silence. I’ve talked it all out. I’ve ignored her, I’ve ignored my own needs. I’ve bought you books. I’ve read you articles. I’ve helped you move. I’ve lost weight. I’ve cried. I’ve laughed. I’ve grown my hair out. I’ve screamed. I’ve broken down. I’ve written it out. I’ve begged. I’ve given you months alone, I’ve given you all of my time. I’ve given you ultimatums. I’ve asked you. Point blank. Please.

But she refuses to leave. And you refuse to let her go.

She is more part of your life now than I am.

The ironic thing is you don’t love her. You don’t even like her. All she does is talk shit about you. All she does is push away what you love and make you feel like you don’t deserve to be happy.

You recognize what she is destroying and you just watch her do it like your life is an infomercial at 3 a.m. What’s the point in turning the channel now? The remote is too far away.

You recognize what she is destroying and you just watch her do it like your life is an infomercial at 3 a.m. What’s the point in turning the channel now? The remote is too far away.

But there is a point. You are the point. We are the point.

I know it’s not too late for you. For us. There are these small, unpredictable moments when your eyes light up. They fill with water and the green flecks dance around and glisten. You look up at me like you see me for the very first time again.

In those moments, you always say the same thing. You tell me I’m beautiful. But it’s more than that. You convince me I’m beautiful. My whole soul inflates for a second. Finally, it’s just you. Finally, you’re here with me. Finally, this other woman is not sucking up all the air in your lungs. Finally, my love.

Finally.

But then the moment passes. You remember what she says to you. You forget about us. You forget about warm summer evenings and all the hours we’ve spent celebrating each other. So, I sit there, helpless. I can’t compete with her. You know I can’t, I’ve tried.

I didn’t sign up for this threesome. It is unwelcome.

Please let her go, love.