I’m not used to being alone.
Or better, I’m used to being half of a relationship.
No, wait . . . I prefer to spend my time with others and to share my dreams with one specific person.
Frankly, I don’t understand how single people survive?
I’d been in a wonderful relationship for over 30 years. I understand that I behaved in ways which ruined my relationship. But even today, when I begged for forgiveness, begged for the chance to reconcile, begged to come home, his reply was cold and unsympathetic: We need distance in order to establish ourselves independently.
What had I done, I keep asking myself, what on earth could I have done to find myself staring at the back of a man that I spent the better part of my lifetime with?
How did I go from husband to the gay divorcee? My spot in the house has been replaced by a no-name roommate.
I know I think too much. But time stretches like a napping kitten. My days pass so slowly. I chat with friends, introduce myself to others, call my Parisian and talk on the phone. Yesterday he asked me, “Harlan, what is it that you want? Do you want to fly back to Paris? Fly home to Chicago? Stay in Charlotte?”
“I want to be with someone,” I said, gulping down air to stifle my crying, “I’m not used to being single. Call me weak, or call me scared, I don’t care. I’m better as a pair.”