New Romantic

‘Please,’ I said, ‘don’t do this,’ sobbing all the while.

‘You don’t understand,’ she said. ‘All you do is take. You pretend to give, but all you do is take; it’s exhausting.’

          ‘But relationships are built on leeway,’ I said. ‘You can’t do this: I love you. Are you telling me it’s over, huh?’

          ‘I – I-’

          ‘Please! Relationships are give and take, baby: you know that! Give me a second chance. I’ll try harder. I will.’ All the while I said this, I had no idea what it was I was doing wrong: I was true to her; I made love to her like a leaf loosed from a tree (I fucked like a champ). I listened…. Did I listen? Did I talk too much? Did I overpower her?

          ‘I can’t do this; not now’ she said. ‘I’m going out.’

          When she left, I wrote her a poem. She’d spit it back in my face, though; she was drowning in a sea of words and gestures; the scent of roses was killing her. She had ripened too much, and now I was making her rot. I wanted her closer, much closer, but I feared I was doing all the moving.

          It seems no matter where we row, we always use our own paddles.