Last night I drunkenly explained to the designer what exactly keeps me from engaging in normal, meaningful, committed relationship. I swirled the olive oil that congealed at the bottom of my martini with an elongated toothpick and leaned forward on my couch.
“Sabotage,” I whispered with raised eyebrows. “I sabotage it all. Even the last guy, the one I liked so much. I knew he was crazy. I would be a fool to not know.”
If the designer was surprised he didn’t act it. He nodded politely and let me elaborate.
“I was in love, you know, and it was good. The relationship was a good one, and I was good. I wasn’t pulling the crap I pull now. And it was a while ago. Remember? So it occured to me last week waiting in the salad line at the deli that maybe I’m over him, and I’m over whatever we had, but I still haven’t moved on. I am afraid I won’t find anything so emphatically good, so I sabotage and, you know, destroy everything before it can really get started. And I make mistakes with fuck-ups and coworkers and anyone else who I know would never really commit so I don’t have to.”
An hour later the designer tucked me into bed and let himself out. I had drank myself into a confused intellectual exhaustion, and he knew as well as I did it was just another form of sabotage. I had spelled it all out for him, hadn’t I?