Blonde – on running into old flames

"I keep running into my ex in the same grocery store, and only on Thursdays. I'm almost certain that in his story I'm the asshole because in my story I'm the asshole, too."

I keep running into my ex in the same grocery store, and only on Thursdays. I'm almost certain that in his story I'm the asshole because in my story I'm the asshole, too.

If I press rewind on the tape of my memory, I can walk back into the grainy vortex of gold country fields and Yamaha motorcycles. Wheat and dust blasting past my car window. At nineteen, after a breakup with my first serious boyfriend, I started dating someone from the neighbouring town. This new squeeze was tall and blonde and into gritty dirt-bikes. Dirty blonde but far from dirty. A little insecure. Mostly sweet. Danger and safety intersected in this thoughtful man revving the silver guts of his beloved engine. In clouds of upturned dirt we'd circle his sun-drenched farm while I'd hang on wearing his too big boots. My laughter turning silent under the roar of motor grunt.

His parents bred race horses. Stables full of muscled beasts with achy brown eyes. Hay, flicking tails, and paint peeling trailers billow in my memory. Whenever animals are involved, my heart whimpers and sighs into interest – wanting to hug them, or spoil them, or whisper against them. On a Saturday afternoon we holed up in his room until the sound of his mother calling from outside interrupted our new love hands. For help with the horses, she shouted. I was honestly thrilled. I adored her. Adored wandering the fields, watching him, watching horses graze in the sun. Stomping down the hill he rolled his eyes and told he me hated this – horses were not his thing. I laughed and he grinned, browns eyes achy. Just like the horses, I thought.

A long, rectangle farm dam unfolded before us. The horse would be led back and forth through the water as a means of training, or recovery, I can't quite remember. I stood bewitched by the whole scene. After they finished he climbed back up the hill and fell floppy, as he did, besides me. Horses meant nothing to him. He preferred me, preferred lips. The tenderness in him was sort of like tender country sun at 6pm – soft, warm, a little dusty.

I don't remember how long we dated, but I do remember it was enough to fit in New Years at the beach. Endless long beaches and cheap straw-hats. Oversized blue jeans and sand in our pockets. The purple bikini he loved. Two heads of blonde sleeping in a car. When I'd shower at his place he would straighten the places in my hair I struggled to reach. It was the sweetest thing a man's hands had ever done. The softest proclamation. So soft, I'm still not sure how I feel about it.

His working schedule meant that he spent a few weeks away and a few weeks at home. One home swing he asked to stay with me for two weeks; I agreed but quickly came to regret it. While romance tugs on me I've never lied about pining for solitude just as much. His hunger was gentle but filled my room like clouds. My lungs like love smoke. His yearning to merge made me want to run. High tail it out of there on his dirt-bike. It was all too much, to be wanted so much. Eventually, I pulled away. The goodness, the sweetness – too sweet, too sticky. Like a mouthful of yellow honeycomb, my tastebuds liked it, but it sat close to choking. I broke up with him over the phone I think. Or maybe it was Skype. Afterwards I sat on my bed and felt bad, but mostly relief.

Over a year ago I moved back to my hometown. I thought all of my exes had moved away. So on an unsuspecting afternoon, when I saw a tall ghost in the grocery store, I brushed it aside. A month or so later, in freezer aisle glow, I thought I saw it again. I brushed it aside again. Five minutes later, with my arms full of blueberries and a huge tub of hummus, I charged around a corner into him. Still tall, still blonde, in the flesh. I said hey and he said it back. I smiled as I watched him trying to register the recognition before taking off. The invisible debris of our past at his feet. Later that night, he sent me an Instagram DM asking if it was me – in that grocery store. I told him yes, asked him how he was. The things we all say but aren't really saying. So much nothingness in place of so much past. He told me I looked good which revved my ego like an engine. Straddling it, kicking it into life. Fitting, really. But if I strip it back I know what was really meant. Past love speaks in silences and what is never said can be translated into a truth, of sorts.

I like knowing he still exists. Freckled from these open skies. Set apart from the world in the way the romantically inclined always are. Goodness still trails him like dust in the country, but underneath there's bite now. A tang of bitterness. I saw that in the grocery store that day. I wonder if I caused it. Or if maybe it was some other woman. Neither of us brave enough, for such a tender thing.

---