There’s an expression that goes, “I hate to beat a dead horse.” Well, my now ex-boyfriend Luke and I beat the horse to a pulp, kicking it in the ass as it hobbled away on one good foot. Our relationship was at a standstill since I had given him the ultimatum. But two weeks ago, on a Wednesday evening, I hoped that would change.
He walked into my home cautiously as if afraid my emotional bomb would go off. I sized him up. He looked good. His golf hat fitting perfectly over his head. His facial hair framing his jaw line, cheeks, and upper lip like he knew I liked it. When he entered, we gave each other a peck on the lips. I didn’t feel the butterflies that I once did. Then again, butterflies can’t fly when their wings have been clipped.
But back to the dead horse.
Luke and I sat on my velvet copper-colored couch, discussing his detachment and my needs for the hundredth time.
“Im not happy…I need quality time…you shut me out…let me be there for you…” I pled. He nodded in agreement, giving me little to no eye contact. During the rest of our talk he sat on the edge of the couch, looking straight ahead instead of connecting with his girlfriend. Suddenly, he made an attempt at closeness.
“Why are you so far away? Ven y dame un cariñito,” he asked softly. I moved from my end of the couch to his end and fell into his arms.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered into my ear.
“I have too,” I whispered back, holding him tighter with every passing moment.
“I know I haven’t been around. I’ve just been depressed,” he expressed while holding my hips. It was my turn to nod and look away in the distance. “You have to let me in…” I reaffirmed. “I know…it’s just that I’m very private.” I said nothing. Private. This and his depression were the excuses for everything: the visits that stopped; the calls that were becoming less and less each day; his neglectful behavior toward me. But I wasn’t going to accept this relationship as is. I lifted my head from his chest and said, “Things have to change. I’m not happy.”
“I know you’re not. And I’ll come back tomorrow and stay over so we can spend Friday together,” he reassured, now standing up to leave.
“You’re not staying,” I stated matter-a-factly as I rose. He said something about his daughter coming home that night. He had to go home.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he repeated as he grabbed me by the waist and pulled me toward him again. He smiled and gave me a quick peck on the lips while rubbing my ass. Still no butterflies, but something was brewing in my pepa™. I smiled and agreed to spend time with him the next day, but the next day never came. He never called or text and it brought me right back to my childhood when I believed I was unlovable. On that Thursday evening while standing at Apt 78 sipping on a margarita, I new we had beat the horse to death. There was no hee-ing or haw-ing. No neighing or galloping. This relationship was over. There was nothing to save it from death.