Edition #64: This Eve of Parting
Plus, creators are selling everything, love stories with Stanley Tucci, and a short story about the end of the world
A Note From the Editor
My first love left a scar. I don’t mean this as poetic hyperbole. On the outer side of my left wrist, a few inches south of my pinky, is a whitened hairline sliver about half an inch long. When I run my fingertips over it, something I do absentmindedly when I’m nervous or distracted, the skin is slightly raised. I’ve always classified myself as a less-romantically inclined person, so this scar serves as a punchline of significance; a reminder of what my heart is capable of.
It was a stupid idea, mountain biking for the first time under such circumstances. I had never tried it before, my first love was a practiced expert. My emotions were running hot and high, his would only begin to catch up to him that night, after my crash. We rented the bikes from a small, indie shop in Nevada where the manager was covered in a sleeve of swirling black tattoos and smelled vaguely of old lunch meat. The manager asked whether I had ridden before. “Yeah, of course,” I said because I had a beach cruiser in college and assumed this couldn’t be too different. I can’t remember whether I was offered knee pads or elbow pads, but I probably would’ve declined either way.
It was day two of a four-day trip, the final days we would spend as a pair. Neither of us acknowledged this at the onset. We’d talked about staying together through my move, committing to it the way you commit to attending a vacation organized a year out; half-heartedly, without consideration of the logistics. I was 22-years-old and at the start of a budding career, moving to an island with a significant time difference. He was ingrained in his career, too, and neither of our demanding jobs would leave time for the eight-hour plane ride that would soon separate us. Despite these truths, a small sparkle of naivete twinked from the base of my heart. If two people want to make it work, they will. Love conquers all and I love this person so much it makes my stomach ache. My logical mind had a more compelling argument: if two people love each other but neither is willing to prioritize a relationship over a job, love is irrelevant. Things will not end well.
The ride up the mountain was brutal. A painfully slow, steady incline on a barren, dusty road, the sun beating on the backs of my bare hands. I imagined the melanoma snaking its poison into my skin in real-time as I complained: this sort of sucks, how much longer, why does anyone do this for fun? At certain points, I pedaled so slowly my bike teetered, threatening to tip over. Halfway up the mountain an older couple clad in brightly colored spandex suits zoomed past us, waving and smiling. I became quietly furious and pedaled harder, determined to keep up. He laughed at me.
I mistakenly thought this portion of the ride was the act of mountain biking. We were biking on the side of a mountain; it made sense. When we eventually reached the plateau of the trail it looked like something straight out of The Hunger Games, a massive, open space with severe dips and divets, a stream running through one section, steep cliff edges you could ride alongside, sans railing. Now it was my turn to laugh. What the fuck was I thinking?
My trip to Nevada was intended to act as a bit of uninterrupted quality time together before my move, but after the first night, it became clear my departure would mark the end of our relationship. The knowledge of our impending ending made the days increasingly tender, the colors brighter, his laugh more melodic. My senses were magnified so that I was experiencing everything with the newness of a child, constantly in awe, hypersensitive. I knew these memories would sustain me in the loneliest moments of my new life, so I tried to drink in every detail. And so, though I was angry and terrified as I watched him loop and hurtle through the course on the top of the mountain, I eventually gave it. I’m ready to try, I proclaimed with more bravery than I felt.
He rode in front of me and I followed behind, his only instruction that I shouldn’t grip the hand brakes, no matter how badly I wanted to, because it would send me flying off the bike. It was immediate adrenaline; the world whirred past me as the bike picked up speed. Everything in my peripherals was a blur, all I could see was the curve of his spine balanced on the bike in front of me, guiding me. I heard laughter emerge from my mouth, felt the wind whipping my skin. I wasn’t afraid because I was going so fast that there was only space for exhilaration. I didn’t register what was happening as his front wheels neared the small stream, only six inches wide. I remember being just far enough behind him to see his wheels lift off the ground with the ease of an Olympic ice skater, landing safely on the other side of the stream. I instinctively knew that landing would not happen for me and my fingers broke the only rule, gripping the breaks on both handles, trying to hold on. And off I flew.
The dirt on that particular trail—nestled in every crevice of my bleeding arm—would make the wound slower to heal, said the bike shop manager. I shouldn’t feel bad about falling because these were some of the gnarliest trails in Nevada, a fact that made us laugh. The remaining two days of the trip were painful both physically and emotionally. I couldn’t straighten my bloodied arm so it remained Frankenstein stiff at all times. The following day we packed sandwiches and hiked, held hands. We were mostly quiet because words would only illuminate the truths that neither of us wanted to acknowledge. I held in tears, excused myself to the bathroom on multiple occasions to let them spill out in private. When we embraced I breathed deeply, trying to commit the complexities of a person’s smell to my scent memory. His was dull and sharp, musk and pine trees, a trace of minty soap, the edges of sleep.
On our final day together we both woke up crying. It was another thing we didn’t acknowledge, the way tears would sporadically leak from two sets of eyes. We laid by the pool listening to Garth Brooks and Tom Petty, drinking warm vodka, looking at each other. We had tacos for dinner, avoiding conversation until the sun retreated. The night gave us the courage to admit that this wasn’t going to work, that we cared too much for eachother to lead our relationship down this doomed path. This was the grown-up thing to do. It was the first moment where I resented the passing of time, where I felt angry that I was entering a phase of my life that would require me to make decisions like these. I wanted love to be enough, to be everything and the only thing. The potency of my feelings dispelled any misnomers I previously carried about being an unromantic person; I wanted the movie ending, a perfectly timed proclamation of love as I moved through airport security, a promise to make it work, a passionate kiss in front of the TSA agents. Instead, I got a stiff, sore arm and a sore heart. A quick goodbye, to ease the pain. Eight hours hysterically crying on a plane. Then, the rest of my life.
Cheers, my dears. This week’s essay was inspired by this incredible song, which I have listened to before but only really heard for the first time yesterday. It made me think of those excruciating endpoints of love, the shared moments (whether a day, a week, or an hour) where you both know things are over, but you’re holding tight until the final goodbye. I’d love to hear the story of your eve of parting.
Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming
For Creators, Everything is For Sale. Get ready to feel freaked out (and old). a new swath of tech companies are designing tools that allow creators to monetize every facet of their lives. On the app NewNew, fans can pay to vote in polls to control some of a creator’s day-to-day decisions—what they eat for breakfast, whether or not they should break up with their partner. I read the piece and had reacted to it, and then I read the comments, which were full of similar reactions (this is creepy, Black Mirror-esque, etc.). I'm wondering whether this is actually as creepy as I/we feel, or whether it's just the future. In the past, people would've said that our phones can serve us very specific ads were creepy, too. It is, but it is also our current reality.
I’m Sick of Being Eroticized by “Woke” Dudes. Yesterday’s anti-Asian attacks are another horrifying reminder of the deeply ingrained racism and hate that exist in this country. It’s easy to classify these attacks as one-offs or acts of extremism, but to do so is to detract from the normalized version of racism that runs rampant in even the most liberal of cities. I appreciate this essay because it is a reminder of the more subtle flavors of racism that are too easily ignored, deemed as socially acceptable “jokes” that contribute to the toxic environment we find ourselves living in today.
“In my dating experience, I’ve gotten questions about what race I prefer, whether most of my friends are also Asian, and “compliments” on how I don’t fit Asian stereotypes. It’s racism thinly veiled as conversation starters.”
Love Stories with Stanley Tucci. There was something cathartic about listening to this one. Not only because it was with Stanley Tucci, whose love for food and for romance made me giggle, but also because it reminded me of how many times we get to experience love in our lifetimes. Tucci describes the things and people he’s ever loved, confesses to having a crush on Meryl Sleep, and says that the food in London is better than the food in New York (wrong). A perfect passive-listen treat.
Perhaps You Should…
Read a Debut Short Story
Have you found yourself seeing the world through a different lens after this past year, seeking out what is truly important, what you should be spending your time and energy and love on? Then this short story, a debut by a young writer, is for you. It poignantly reflects what a lot of us have been wondering: does any of this matter? If we were told the world was ending in a few days, what would we do? As heart-wrenching as it is romantic, a must-read.
“Later, they lie together in the back of the car, their bodies curled like apostrophes closing in dialogue.”
**Bonus Content** (A Crazy Cool Short Film)
A sexy, indulgent, wickedly shot short film (only two minutes long) about WANTING MORE!
A Quote From A Book You Should Read:
“At that time in my personal life, I was coming to grips with the end of the world. The farmiliar world, anyway. Many of us were.”
-A Children’s Bible by Lydia Millet
This newsletter is best served with a side of conversation, so drop your opinions, reflections, and thoughts in the comments below and let’s get to talking.
Or, share the most thought-provoking piece from today’s edition with someone you love, then call them up to discuss, debate, and percolate. As a wise woman once said, “Great minds discuss ideas.”
The way you described the end of a relationship was so raw and poignant that it brought me to tears. It has been years since I have experienced that, but it's a deep hurt like nothing else. Thank you for being so vulnerable and writing so beautifully.
The article on "everything is for sale" made me think of the new NBA Top Shot program and the huge rise in NFT (non-fungible tokens). The NBA is selling plays. You can own single a basketball play. What does that even mean? How does that appreciate? Should this be part of my investment portfolio? Including the fact that a digital piece of art sold for $60+ million recently, these are all starting to sound insane to me...but then I think, "Am I just a dinosaur resisting the future!?" Bitcoin is a shining example that maybe I shouldn't be balking at these new trends and embrace the crazy future.