It should have been harder to say goodbye. I always imagined it would be longer, more drawn-out. And I have imagined it. A lot. The relationship was one of need and longing, and I resented the grip our time together had on me. Everything was dependent on our getting together – my moods, my ability to function. Every time I thought of leaving, I would picture the horror of life alone. The same elements would show up in the fantasy break-up in my mind. I’m left bereft, windswept on a cliff of despair, overlooking a blue, but fierce, ocean vista. I mean, if it’s going to be a forever goodbye, it should be dramatic, no? That’s why it is so surprising that our love died not with a bang, but with a whimper.
I was sick, the kind of sick that makes a grown woman shuffle about for days in a stupor of flannel and smudged eyeglasses clutching kleenex and watching daytime television. I could hold nothing down. When I returned to the world of the living, I found I was strong enough to move on. Co-dependent no more, I said goodbye to the fear and anxiety of life alone. I learned to trust my own rhythms and not worry about keeping pace with those around me. And I’ve never looked back. But once in awhile, the heady aroma of dark roast sends me down the memory lane of longing. Then, and only then, do I toy with the idea of having just one taste. And I order the decaf.