The Boy

This post will make you sick if you are:
a.) Single and bitter to be so;
b.) Cynical and happy to be so, or;
c.) The Boy.

You have been warned.

The Boy has been transcendent this past week.
I, by contrast, have been PMS-ing. Wildly.

I came home one night last week and announced that I was "rethinking us" because we couldn't have "deep conversations about metaphysics" and because he seemed to "live life only on the surface and I couldn't do that, and I wanted a partner who could think at my level."
Nothing wrong with all, that, of course. Except that I have no idea where it came from, and waited precisely an hour before blurting it all out to him.
He listened with a horrified expression on his face, and asked me what exactly was wrong.
I used this as Exhibit A in a long tirade about how see, this just proves my point, you do not get me, yada yada yada.
I then proceeded to burst into passionate tears whilst sitting on the doorstep.
At this point, his expression turned from plain horror into horrified sadness (and, I must add, I suddenly understood the literal meaning of the term shellshock.)

He did the only thing he could: Poured me a glass of wine and rubbed my back as he sat next to me.
Then, he said, "Baby, what do you want to do?"
Glumly, I answered, "I don't know."
"Okay, then I'll be here until you do know, I'm not going anywhere."

Then I cried some more. Copiously. Until his shoulder was soggy.

When it was clear that I was unwilling to stop crying so that we could actually talk, he got up and went to the kitchen.
He poured me some more wine.
And cooked me dinner.
And pulled me onto his lap whilst he ate, and I picked at my plate miserably with a fork.

Then, he said, "I'm sorry. I really am. I do not understand things the way you do, and I cannot talk as well as you. But if you write me any of your ideas instead of screaming them at me during a fight, maybe I can listen and of course we can talk about whatever you want."
Not convinced, I plodded upstairs, banged the bathroom door, and burst into fresh tears. This time even less inhibited, owing to the two glasses of wine.

When I opened the door he was standing there, leaning against the door frame with the palm of his hand pressed against the door.

I then went on to be miserable for the whole week. Thinking: 'he doesn't understand life the way I do, why are we together??' And: 'He is not deep, why are we together.'
I even called my Mum at 3am saying: 'Mum, I think I am about to break up and I'm confused, help!'
When I told her why, she said the only thing that I needed to hear: 'Stop being a fool and go back to sleep at once.' I asked her to explain, and this is what she said: 'He loves you more than you are even capable of loving. And is therefore deeper than you are right now, you selfish girl. You don't deserve him. Go back to bed, and apologise to him in the morning. And for God's sake, get your period quickly and be done with this nonsense.'

I am quoting verbatim here.
She said every word slowly, with full-stops of exasperation in between each syllable.

Of course, in a few days, I got my period.
And magically, I cannot remember what I was so panicky about.
Everything I said is still true: We cannot have night-long conversations about souls. Souls and night-long conversations are still important to me.
But yesterday, he cooked me another dinner. And we watched an astronomy documentary together. And I curled up against his chest and he played with the back of my neck and said, 'You know, I love you. Maybe that is all I can do for you: just love you. And I really, really do."
And I realised what a fool I was.
"I'm sorry about last week", I muttered.

"No need, you were just being honest."

"No, I was being hormonal."

"That, and honest."

Somewhere within this cynical, borderline depressive, starkly frank, irritatingly quiet-minded man is a soul who is capable of loving without reserve, restraint, expectation or fear.
I realised that I am full of all of those things: reserve, restraint, expectation, and oh God, so much fear.
Most of what I was actually saying over last week was just: 'We're different! Why do you love me? Why do I love you? What can you give me that I need! Nothing!'
And his answer, every time he spoke, or held me, or cooked my food, or rubbed my back was: 'We're different! I love you. You love me. That is what I can give you, and that, my friend, you seem to really, really need. And that is everything.'

And magically, my chest doesn't feel so tight anymore (even though, truth be told, I am still thinking of why this came up so forcefully, and what if anything I can do about making myself comfortable with our differences).
And I am not bursting into hysterical tears every night.
And we made love in the afternoon over the weekend, just randomly and unexpectedly and gloriously. And when I turned over and hugged him after, there it was again: Love unadulterated by fear.
I know what a cynic, a skeptic, or the Boy might say about all of this.
But all that matters is that I am not bursting into tears, wondering whether to make what might be the biggest mistake of my life, all for the sake of hormones and a distinct lack of time, money and friends with whom to talk.