The Secret Third Thing

Pillow-talk for wounds that aren't romantic.

Dear reader,

I’m tired of my relationships with good men precluding my friendships with them afterwards.

I’d do most anything to spend a day, or two, with each of my former romantic partners. But the more ex-boyfriends I acquire, the more I understand that what I’m longing for — sustained intimacy, sans romance — isn’t commonly done. It just isn’t customary. Perhaps it would be different if I lived in proximity to any of them; or, maybe if my breakups had been more amicable.

If I had my way, I’d watch Skippy read Harper’s while he took a bath, before making a late breakfast of bacon and eggs together. If I had my way, I’d take a walk to Nate’s house and listen to him play fiddle beside the woodstove, late into a long and frigid Vermont night. I’d go surfing with Calvin, and, with my fingers clasped around his ankle, cheat the long paddle out at San Onofre. Then he’d play the Wurlitzer in the corner of our living room, by the window, and I would bake us a loaf of bread.

If I had my way, I’d run errands in Manhattan with Mike on a Friday morning, or maybe we’d wait in line together at the Greenpoint farmer’s market. If I had my way, I’d wake up early on a Sunday and crawl into the truck with T. to hold hands while we pilfer through piles of other people’s things at the swap meet. 

It’s not the relationships that I miss. It isn’t the romantic partnership or compulsive monogamy that I crave. I just want my friends back.