The Origin of "Break-up"

The word "break-up" must have been invented by a woman. I can picture her - dumped by the love of her life, pacing, crying, attempting to sort out her feelings, to define what is happening to her heart. She clutches her upper chest. She feels her heart pumping the blood that gives her life. She gasps for air between sobs. Then she feels something that has never been defined - her heart breaking. She pictures it splitting in two, the edges jagged like the broken hearts doodled on the notebooks of lovesick teenagers. My heart, she thinks. She then reaches over to her journal and begins to write. Break, break, torn up, broken up, break...break-up.

This scenario repeated itself in my head when Elijah expressed his confusion and need for "time". I was filled with grief, pain, and loss and the wound deepened during our next encounter.

Elijah waited for me outside of my office, sitting on a burgundy swivel chair. I walked toward him, gave him a soft kiss on the lips, and immediately realized my mistake.

"How are you?" he asked.

"I'm ok," I replied.

Elijah's eyebrows furrowed. He then stroked his head with his hand.

"I'm not doing so good," he said.

I gazed into his eyes, my eyes watering as I noticed his expression shift from somber to guilty.

"I want to be honest with you"

I held my breath.

"I saw my ex-girlfriend yesterday."

I was suffocating.

"I only wanted closure. Nothing happened between us. We talked outside, she cried, told me how she wanted me back -"

"I can't believe this. What are you doing?!" I asked.

"I don't know."

Elijah's hands cupped his face as I held in my tears. He then looked up at me and told me he had to go, told me we would speak later. He lifted himself from the chair, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and walked away. I watched him exit the room before entering my office and breaking down. Between sobs, I packed my things and put on my coat. I wiped away my tears and realized I couldn't wait. I called Elijah.

"Meet me in my apartment. We can't leave this like this."

My legs felt heavy as I walked up the stairs to my apartment. And my heart, my heart was sinking. I made it to the third floor though my eyes were blurred and my heart and head pounded. And then I saw Elijah, walking up the opposite staircase, stepping onto the gray concrete floor and approaching my door. I stood there for a second, keys jingling in my hands. He stood there, eyelids lowered, leaning on the brick wall. I opened the door. I watched him walk into my apartment. I took a deep breath. I could feel it breaking. I could feel that feeling. The feeling of a break, break, torn up, broken up, break...break-up.

The Ghosts of Exes Past

The holiday season brings happiness and the spirit of generosity. Christmas lights decorate fire escapes, wrapped presents sit underneath synthetic trees, and family members gather to chug Heinekens and have a merengue dance-off. The holidays also bring the return of all things - from the twenty-four hour marathon of “A Christmas Story” to the non-stop playing of the burrito song where the boy sings “tuki tuki tuki tuki.” But not all things that return during this festive time are as enjoyable as a good flick and a cheesy Spanish holiday song. There is also the return of the unwanted, like long lines at airports and thoughtless presents. The worst possible return being the ghosts of exes past.

I reached over and flipped open my cell phone. I had a text message from a familiar number, a number I hadn’t dialed in months. Happy Holidays to you and your family, it read. I shot up from the comfort of my bed and dialed the number.

“Hey!” he said.

“Hi. I got your text message,” I replied, lacking his enthusiasm.

“I’m surprised you called. How are you?” he asked.

I went on to tell my ex-boyfriend about my new boyfriend, Elijah. I bragged. Told him how well things were going in my relationship and how happy I was. Told him my family loved my new boyfriend. He went on to tell me about the end of his last affair. How she had gone through his cell phone and was envious of his relationship with his co-workers.

“You were never like that with me,” he said.

I sensed his regret. It felt good, but I wanted no part of it.

“Listen I would prefer it if you didn’t call me. I don’t think you can treat me as a friend, and I don’t want to disrespect my boyfriend.”

George didn’t take it lightly. He had returned with a purpose, and I wasn’t softening as I had so many times before. So he dug up the past, scattered the remains throughout the conversation. I remained unaffected as his frustration level rose, and I bid him farewell. I then dialed Elijah’s number.

“Hey, I need to tell you something,” I said.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

I told him everything.

“Actually, I have to talk to you about something,” he said.

“What’s up?” I replied innocently.

“I spoke to my ex-girlfriend, and I’m really confused about what I feel. I wanted to wait to speak to you in person but I didn’t want to pretend like everything was ok. I need some time to figure things out.”

My eyes welled up with tears. I couldn’t believe what was happening.

“We’ll talk more when you get to Jersey, ok?” he said.

“Yeah,” I replied.

“Sujeiry, I’m not getting back with her. It’s not about that. Remember that,” he said.

“Ok.” I replied.

I hung up my cell, cradled my face and felt the softness of my hands, and began to cry. The ghosts of exes past had resurrected. I was prepared to bury them but Elijah wasn’t. He allowed her spirit to haunt our relationship. I could always feel her, lingering.

Crazy Conchita

Deep down every woman has a little Crazy in her. It’s like a repressed personality that transforms pleasant dispositions to nasty ones. Unfortunately, Crazy doesn’t have to wait long to invade our rational minds. All Crazy has to do is follow us to the next local bar on a not-so-good day.

That’s exactly what that bitch did to me. She used to follow me every Tuesday into Coogan’s Restaurant and Bar. Always find me though I would duck behind cars and hide inside building lobbies. At the bar, she would stand right behind me, blending in with the karaoke crooners and alcohol induced crowd, waiting for that fourth rum and coke to run through my blood stream. And then it was all over for the sane me. Crazy, who I eventually renamed Conchita, forced me into the dangers of Drinking and Dialing, and the emotional outbursts that streaked mascara and led bartenders to soothe me with glasses of ice water.

Elijah met Conchita the day before Thanksgiving. I planned to shower him with love and affection before I went home for the holiday, until he forgot about our plans and picked me up two hours late. It was unlike him. I sat in the passenger seat and greeted him with a quick kiss on the lips, then turned toward the window and watched the night spread across the sky as the beats of a 50 Cent song filled the silence. He turned to me and asked if I wanted something from the liquor store. Conchita immediately requested a bottle of Bacardi rum and a 2-liter bottle of Coca Cola.

Elijah and I arrived at his older brother’s home with three brown paper bags. The bottles clinked as he held the bags together in one hand and opened the door with the other. We walked into a spacious kitchen and Elijah set the packages on a glass table. I grabbed the rum and soda, leaving the six-pack of Yeanling and a bottle of vodka behind. I twisted the cap open and the potent smell of alcohol hit my nostrils. Elijah handed me a glass while the soda hissed and foamed. I began to fill the glass slowly, in an effort to measure my alcohol intake, and then Conchita tipped my elbow. The glass was half empty.

By my third drink, my legs felt like mush. By my fourth drink, the volume of my voice had elevated like that of an old, slobbering drunk. Elijah sat across from me, watched as I began to unravel with every sip and refill. But he just sat there with a cold beer, entertaining his brothers and cousin with a childhood story. I lifted myself from the stool and walked over to the table. It was time for another. Elijah looked at me and said:

“Babe, are you sure you should drink another one? You’re already getting pretty loud.”

My eyes narrowed and I poured the rum into my glass.

“I’m fine, and don’t tell me what to do.”

That was Conchita talking.

He turned away from my glare and took a swig of his beer. I stood there, sipping my rum and coke, watching his indifference. He was different. Something was different. Everything then began to blur. I walked toward the leather couch in the living room, leaving behind the voices and laughter. My body sank into the softness of the couch and I began to cry.

I don’t remember how long I was out, but I remember Elijah pulling me from the couch, handing me my coat, and my tripping on stairs after bidding everyone farewell. On the ride back to Elijah’s, there was that silence - that heavy, somber, frightening silence. And in his home, in his bed, there were more tears - apologetic and needy tears. I yearned to be rid of Conchita, but first I had to be rid of my doubts and fears. That’s where I had to begin and I hoped Elijah loved me enough to be patient. That night he was. Elijah held me in his arms and stroked my tear-stained cheeks. And Conchita was too. She took a break and let me be me.

Loving Like Shue

I sat on my loveseat watching “Leaving Las Vegas” and drinking a home-made martini. I took a sip of my green pick-me-upper and winced. The cold had hit my teeth and numbed my lips as the alcoholism and prostitution had numbed the feelings of Nicholas Cage and Elisabeth Shue’s characters. I imagined my drink was just as strong as the vodka tonic Nicholas' character drank and immediately set it down. Then they arrived home from the casino, Nicholas drunk and Elisabeth taking care of him before going out to sell herself. And then she surprised me. Took the dreaded step and said “I love you”. And he said he loved her. It was that simple.

My relationship with Elijah lacked the dysfunction of an alcoholic and prostitute pairing, but it was just as loving. There was a mutual understanding. He yearned for someone to love after his last heartbreak and I needed someone to love after all the disappointments. All that was left was for us to express our love to one another. And after meeting his mami and him about to meet mine, I felt it was on its way.

We walked through mami’s front door on a Saturday afternoon. I was nervous, as this was the first man I had ever brought home and the first that would spent the night. But mami was as wonderful as ever, greeting Elijah with a hug and a peck on the cheek, exclaiming how wonderful it was to meet him and what a handsome trigeñito he was. Elijah was relieved; his mami thought my mami would reject him because he was dark-skinned. But there was only love.

We excused ourselves after greeting my brother. Elijah had to buy a winter hat and I had to replace the upper button of my brown and black pea coat in order to brave the cold months of winter. We were finally outside of the building. Things seemed to have changed so much since I left for Rowan. The building’s numbers - 551- had somewhat faded and while standing there I noticed how worn out the bricks had become. I also noticed Elijah’s expression changing as he scanned the area. As much as he claimed Vineland, NJ was “hood”, the uncertainty, awe, and innocence spreading across his face told me otherwise.

“O.k., I’m going to take you to 181st. That’s where all the shops are. It’s like the Dominican version of Times Square,” I said.

He lifted a strand of hair stuck onto my glossy lips and said:

“Let’s get your button first. It’s really cold out here.”

I smiled. I loved that he thought of me, that he protected me. I looked up at him and noticed his expression changing once again. He starred at me, as he always did when we woke up in each other’s arms, admiring my essence. Elijah flattened the right collar of my coat and tucked in the gold and burgundy-brown Rowan scarf he had given me that morning.

“You know what?” he asked.

“What?” I asked.

He stopped for a few seconds and looked toward the bricks. He was going to tell me he loved me. I could feel it.

“Never mind,” he said.

“Not tell me,” I said.

“I’ll tell you when the mood is right.”

He grabbed my right hand and we turned to walk down St. Nicholas Avenue. I replayed the moment in my head and wish I had said something. I wish I would have risked it all -turned the functional to dysfunctional, the safe to uncertain, the fear to surrender. I wish I would have said I love you. I wish I would have loved like Shue.