I’ve already had my say about Valentine’s Day. I chose February 14 to travel from New York to San Francisco, where my trans-global trek to Tanzania was to originate. I didn’t want to be watching bad TV and brooding about being single. But even 35,000 feet above the earth, hope was sorta springing eternal. What an idiot I am…
In my fucked up imagination, I somehow hallucinated that my ex might actually show up at the airport, ready to drive me wherever I wanted to go. Yeah, no. I jumped on the Marin Airporter in the damp, drizzling rain and waited at the bus station in San Rafael for my mom to pick me up. Back again in the sadly depressing room that the two of us had shared for so many months I couldn’t believe how much it still affected me. Pathetic, I tell you…pathetic.
That evening I had plans. My friend Heather and her girlfriend had an extra ticket to a show in Oakland. Again, hope was doing its thing and, well, springing. Or whatever. Again, sadly, my imagination conjured me appearing at the place we were meeting up and, magically, there he would be, coming along with us. What a lovely surprise! Happy Valentine’s Day to ME! But yeah. No. It was just Heather and her girlfriend and me and another single woman. Who was quite nice, don’t get me wrong. And she was leaving the following day for Africa as well, coincidentally. But she was, sadly, not my ex. Oh well.
It’s difficult for me to explain why I still hold out hope. Against all the advice and admonitions of my friends, against all my common sense, against all sense of logic and timing and the foibles of the human heart, I still hope. It is making meeting someone else fairly impossible as the space in my heart that should have a big ol’ “Vacant” sign hanging over it is woefully stuffed with memories of this guy. What the hell is the matter with me? That’s a rhetorical question, by the way. I already know.